Of Delusion
by Dixon Oriole
Summary: The dumping ground for my Beyblade double drabbles. Concerning anything thought of but squashed into 200 words, and updated as I go. It's an anthology! 137 added.
1. Chapter 1

_Disclaimer:_ I take no credit whatsoever for any element of these pieces pertaining to Beyblade: including characters, setting, etc, etc… Everything belongs, and rightfully so, to its creator – Aoki Takao.

Of Delusion

Three Simple Words

By Dixon Oriole

He was relieved, chuckling breathlessly as though – no, not as though, – as a terrible weight of worry and confusion had lifted from his shoulders. He felt a newfound surge of bravery and purpose; the calling that had faded to a mere whisper rising once more in a resurrected scream. He felt happy, and he _never_ felt happy – not without a whole mess of strings attached. He felt glad, honest with the world and renewed inside his own skin and like everything from that point onward would be _easy_. It had been so hard – he'd only been able to pray and hope against all hope; he'd had so many doubts. But the doubts were gone and he could lie back in the grass smiling softly, smiling through his tear-glazed eyes and run a nerve-shaken hand through his hair and look up at a sky no longer as threatening as it was beautiful. He could be content, secure in the knowledge of your feelings reflecting his own for the first time. Your feelings meant that everything would be alright and he didn't have to be afraid anymore – because you'd finally said what he'd wanted to hear… needed to hear… "I hate you."

_

* * *

_

_Author's Notes:_ As stated, this will be my collection of double drabbles for Beyblade, updated as produced. Each chapter is an entirely different piece, having nothing to do with whatever comes before or after it. Separate. All. Putting them side-by-side made more sense than having a new story for every tiny little one of these. Is it clear _now_?

The above one was about Kai. The "you" character… take a wild guess. Who would Kai be relieved to hear hated him? Who would Kai be worried did _not_ hate him? Yeah, I think you get it now.


	2. colliding realities

_Colliding Realities _

The sirens cried, irritating and insistent, in the snow-muted early evening of a mid-winter Moscow.

They had seen the distant flames and climbed atop one of Balcov Abbey's periphery walls, gazing earnestly towards the dark trees cresting an icy ridge that spouted great mushroom clouds of oily black smoke. They didn't know what had started the fire or how it would end, nor did they care. It simply served as an excuse to avoid meal-time in the cafeteria, which every night invariably led to a riot. Tala and Ian, nestled deeply into their mittens, scarves and wolverine-furred, wool-lined expedition coats, were not eager to end the grueling day any more bruised, headached and angry than what had directly resulted from training, and was thus inescapable. The pair, vastly and apparently different from one another while deeply allied through necessity and convenience, huddled side-by-side under a darkening sky, bright sets of cerulean and ruby eyes wandering between their white puffs of breath and the shadowed puffs of smoke.

"Something bad is happening out there," Tala carelessly observed.

"You mean worse than in here?" Ian slyly questioned.

And on that note the two boys laughed bitterly and stood to head back inside.


	3. take me with you

_Take Me With You_

South Africa did not suit Ming Ming: hating sweat, the way her ruffled clothing wilted in the humidity, her hair bleaching in the sunlight to a sickening sea foam while her carefully regulated tan deepened into a native-caliber chestnut – height and the language barrier were disconcerting; she'd probably have been lonely, lacking all the fanfare, if not for a suddenly extensive family. Her _family… _They weren't _really_ her's, but they'd readily taken the blader as she'd appeared, all inexperience and forced smiles. Ming Ming never had family, and _now _she had a _community_ of cousins, siblings, aunts, uncles – she had _grandparents_,_ – _sometimes it was overwhelming. But her brother – her dear, kind protector, made everything okay. She'd have been lost without Moses, owing him her life, her morality... her home. Going back, taking his little sister to the place she knew where she could properly recover, he'd not _needed to_ smile at the little pop star or swing her up onto his broad shoulders or introduce her to his parents with "I brought home another of your daughters," but he _had_, and the trio had left that Japanese hospital kin. South Africa didn't suit the princess – but having a family did.


	4. on and away

_On and Away_

Mr. Dickenson called in a questioning and distracted tone, but he had more important things to attend to than well-meaning seniors or the surrounding celebrations of mindless infants. He limped through the crowd, unnoticed but for a few quizzical glances at the bandaged, lanky, sharp-eyed, beautiful, absolutely severe-looking youth, which came about only because he'd intruded upon their line of sight. Grim, the imposing creature dragged his tired body to a clear ridge amongst the wreckage, shadowed by what remained of the BEGA building (The Abbey had been more impressive when demolished), and stopped, absorbing the sight of his despondent director standing, glaring narrowly around himself as though his ambitions could be rebuilt by willpower alone. When _he _looked at Tala, the gaze was not brief – it sat, wearied, waiting for his past charge to act.

"I loved BioVolt," the wolf-bearer growled, voice unnaturally pinched by bitterness, rage, sorrow… "I loved you." He met Boris' stare resolutely, violently ripping the BioVolt insignia from his own unbuttoned uniform and casting it at his mentor's feet. "But those days are gone." Tala turned, trudging away, finding it in his aching heart to leave willingly what he'd only ever been _forced _to leave.

* * *

_Author's Notes: _I liked the idea… Set mere moments after the final Justice Five match, Tyson v. Brooklyn. For a while I toyed with letting dear Tala kick Boris in the head or something, but that's going to be left for some other, longer piece. And oh, in case you've not noticed, I'm only commenting on some of these. 


	5. he's sloshed

_He's… Sloshed_

"I see why Kai never comes drinking with us," Tala smilingly said to his teammates, batting the empty tumbler of his Mudslide back and forth between long fingers, "he's got the constitution of a petite fourteen-year-old girl."

"Ah least I don look like one," the beyblader in question irately replied from the right; he did nothing, however, to argue the accusation of his wolfish counterpart, heavy head remaining at rest on the bar, blurry garnet eyes shut in serene drunkenness.

"But you do, Miss – with those lovely long 'lashes…" his red-headed concomitant amicably retorted, waving a folded bill to get the 'tenders attention.

"Can't really blame the poor thing," Ian impishly noted from across Spencer, words sing-song, "though we _can _blame him for drinking something called '1-900-FUK-ME-UP'… and accepting it from _Brian_, of all people."His ruddy glance settled on the Falborg blader (other side of Kai), narrowed for emphasis.

"I thought it was tradition," the addressed young man expressionlessly reasoned, shrugging it away.

"Right, for petite fourteen-year-old girls," Tala chuckled, gaze just as playfully reprimanding as Ian's. "_You'll_ have to carry him home," their captain continued, looking away from Brian's next shrug in time to order them another round.


	6. task

_Task_

There was laundry, naturally – they'd just never had to deal with it before. The Abbey did not specialize in home-making. Boys that could assemble nearly every weapon and then use it with marked ability, drive or fly a variety of vehicles as easily as they could blow them up, navigate and pass any security system without misplacing a hair, survive most natural disasters, and command legions or take orders, faced the threat and obstacle of a washing machine and drier with disproportionate suspicion. Ian spent an hour and a half staring at it and wandering in and out of its lair before he deemed the task impossible, moving to track down the master of taking on impossible tasks, Tala. Unfortunately, once at his side, they only stood and stared for a time longer.

"What do you make of it?" Ian eventually asked, malicious ruby eyes narrowed, unsmiling.

His captain frowned darkly, perturbed that of all the things he had learned, _this _undoubtedly simple endeavor was _not _one of them. "There's a manual?" he questioned, pride long swallowed, visually dissecting a bottle of detergent perched atop the washing machine.

"Manual!" Ian incredulously cried, but quickly sobered. "Maybe…"

They stared some more.

* * *

_Author's Notes: _Who needs basic life skills when you've got _munitions_? 


	7. artificial blood ties

_Artificial Blood Ties_

I have mechanical flesh. Daddy made me. I never knew mother, though I remember her. I was built, born a lab rat, my father's abomination. Mechanical flesh, organs, everything. I never knew there was a difference until … I thought it was all me, _my personality_ that said I didn't like being in danger; I came home early for violin lessons instead of being around normal kids, playing soccer. I wasn't much for organized sports, and I always thought that was me. Turns out it was my dad. He made me how he wanted me to be, like the dead kid. I never had a choice; I don't grow beyond programming – I don't _act _outside of guidelines. I make myself sick. Daddy makes me sicker. He couldn't let go, and he created me because he was sad. The other night I dreamed that there was a label tattooed on my back: "Made in Japan." I don't understand how I can dream. Father always fooled himself that I was real – he worked so hard to fool me too. He wanted to break my heart before the world shattered it. I would have found out sooner or later. I don't even bleed…

* * *

_Author's Notes: _Ah, Zeo… 


	8. synergy of dark

_Synergy of Dark_

"I am the King of ice cubes," he muttered dubiously, staring with a sort of care down at the beyblade in his small, skilled hand, gaze centered at the bit-chip that glowed an ethereal blue. Fresh out of the test tube, this abomination of canine nature. Fresh out of the test tube and into his keeping; Boris had looked so gracious, as though he'd expected to be thanked. He _had_ been... his red-haired protégé was trained to be generally polite, if immoral. This beast was an affirmation of Tala's greatest fears and greatest desires: he was a favorite, a general among lowly soldiers; he had real _power_, the price of which was the chilling dark eyes of the director trained across his back. He wasn't just imagining it anymore. He had been handed real power. Every move in the dish from then on would, as the source, have to be Boris' doing – something rung unpleasant, owing the glorified monk _anything_. However, as he gazed on, the bit-chip glistened threateningly, demanding respect. Tala respected – soon everyone would. He turned from the demolished practice dish, leaving in his eight-year-old wake a room the temperature of a meat-locker, and an opponent frozen solid.


	9. I never was

_I Never Was_

"Cut it off, _all _of it," he resolutely said, glaring unblinking into the mirror, large turquoise eyes narrowed determinedly, jaw tight, stubborn, but face pale out of some undefeated fear.

The hairdresser, gripping handfuls of aquamarine silk protectively, almost possessively, pleaded with the reflection of the boy she'd once known. "But… I thought you – your mother loved it so much like this, Zeo."

His hand moved and eyes shut, silencing her. "My mother never loved anything about me, never even knew me."

"Your… father…" she weakly tried to reason, hands shaking around the incredibly long locks. The woman wasn't sure he was feeling alright – Zeo had always been a dear, however spineless. She'd liked him spineless. But now he seemed so bitter, so, so – "Ah! N-no!"

He'd whipped around smoothly, wrenching away the scissors she'd only half-heartedly held, and sliced off a huge chunk of his own gorgeous hair. The woman shied away, frightened, as the little boy continued feverously remaking his image, lock by shining lock.

"I was never Zeo. I shouldn't have to look like him." His intent stare welled up with tears, movements jerky and uneven in silent panic, as cerulean hair tumbled gracefully down around him.

* * *

_Author's Notes: _In one of the ending screenshots of the final episode, you see Zeo. His wonderful hair has been completely chopped. I grieved for it. 


	10. willing hostage

_Willing Hostage_

He wasn't pinned to the couch by cute little blondes every day. Rick couldn't remember when he'd had this much bodily contact with a single human being. He wasn't remotely uncomfortable. He might have joined his friend in sleep, but… the TV was on, movie credits scrolling, his arm felt like it was being jammed through a wood chipper, circulation cut off, and, finally, he had too much pride to be found in the morning cuddled up with _Max_. Rick looked appraisingly at the younger beyblader: face pressed against his chest, dubious dream-smile in place, resting peacefully. Somehow they'd gone from sitting beside one another to Max flattening his counterpart, curled up like a child and out like a lamp. Max played these games with people despite how often his antics unsettled and disturbed. It was questionable whether this game was safe to play with _Rick_, who had been undeniably violent in the past. Rick very carefully moved his pained appendage, not upsetting the blonde's position, gazing, thoughtful. It was _incorrect_ to question his safety in the _present_ however, because regarding Max, well – let's just say that at the moment, Rick's thoughts ran along these lines: "I am the luckiest."

* * *

_Author's Notes: _I know, I _know_! So… I don't see it as yaoi. Too… too much yaoi… Um. Rick is a great friend! You just shut up, you! 


	11. don't be niave

_Don't Be Naive_

They gave remote looks, sitting still and grim-faced. She closed her eyes, pinching the bridge of her nose in frustration, deliberating another tactic. Deep down she knew words were grains of sand attempting to destroy mountains. Nevertheless…

"_Okay_, let's try something else. A – scenario. I'll give you an instance where your compassion would be put to the test, and you'll tell me what you'd do." She leafed through the notebook on her lap, hair on the back of her neck standing, reacting to their collectively keen, eerie stares. "Alright, here: you're starving; you've run across a soup kitchen and, being so hungry, you consider cutting to the front of the line – you easily could; – the people before you are emaciated and filthy, having been on the streets without food much longer. You know the handouts will be gone soon, possibly without you getting _any_thing… What do you do? Cut them or wait your turn?"

The four boys were dead-pan; she couldn't begin to understand, and so felt threatened. They were waiting for their leader's reaction – all narrowed, unblinking blue eyes, blood red hair, and self-confidence. He sneered at her. "Survival always comes first; starving people aren't compassionate," Tala said.

* * *

_Author's Notes: _I don't envy the therapists that had to take these guys on after the Abbey. There'd probably have been a lot of morality issues like this… 


	12. haunted houses

_Haunted Houses_

Kai had made the formation. He walked in front, naturally, as the least likely to spook at something unexpected; Tyson came second, determined to look brave, and yet feeling safest close to his imposing captain; Kenny was sandwiched dead center, quaking and sweating, glasses periodically slipping down his nose; Max followed, a rear-guard in his own right, but well-protected nonetheless; Rei brought up the tail-end, not only for his combat ability, but because his heightened senses practically guaranteed their safety from behind.

With a good formation they didn't plan on anything bad happening. The Chief pointedly reminded his friends that bad things _always _happened to them. But Kai had told him to shut up or be Kenny-burgers, effectively quieting his pleas. He'd come with them more out of principle than anything.

Tyson, or maybe Max, had thought it would be a fun ordeal, and where the dynamic duo went Rei tended to follow. The idea had taken on an eerie life of its own, bringing them to that dark place at two AM, draped with cobwebs real or fake, filled with noises real or fake – and left them in their collective loneliness to wonder whether _it _was real or fake.


	13. because I know

_Because I know_

"…but you still have your friends and family to comfort you…"

Covered all bases, didn't she? Friend or family – I know what her idea of comfort is. She's a harpy, feeding off his light. She tricks herself, believing the affection he extends to the entire world is meant just for her at times like these, with words like that – she thinks he cares? He doesn't care about her. Not _that _way. I'm watching from the crowd, next to the other "adults." My heart is breaking for him. I'm so proud when he doesn't acknowledge that schoolgirl drivel – when he speaks only to Tyson, saying only what has to be said… but maybe that's because he's so tired, so weak. I'm worried and proud. I wish I could go to the hospital with him, to watch over my darling, golden boy – I want to more than ever when I see she's following the stretcher like a stray puppy: blind loyalty. But I can't. I have to stay and see that everything works out… I'm doing it for him, and beybladers like Tyson. But mainly him. I'll never let her steal his light… Not while I'm basking in it.

* * *

_Author'__s Notes:_ I donno what came over me with thissun. I'm very wary of Mr. D… he reminds me of my English teacher. Squishy and sweet on the outside, unnecessarily cruel and manipulative underneath. In any case, the top thing is a quote of Mariah's – right after the Rei vs. Bryan fight in season one, when he lost Byakko. I was wondering what a Rei-possessive Dickinson might be thinking. Yeah. 


	14. how to be a kid

_How to Be a Kid_

"Tell me a story," Daichi demanded, flopping across Tyson's bed, and incidentally across one of his babysitter's long legs. He yawned, opening an expectant green eye as said leg and the attached body stiffened uncomfortably at such casual contact.

The pale face he stared into wore an aloof expression, the intricate nuances of which flew straight over the little red-haired boy's head. Eyebrows slightly raised, mouth a little open, poised to voice some degree of incredulity, the older boy, a sort of family friend, considered his reply.

"I don't know any," he stated, unapologetic. The harsh-eyed Russian pushed himself further against the bed's headboard, unsettling Daichi's resting place atop his limb.

The wild-child sat up, turning to him with a face of awe and suspicion. "You kiddin'? Nobody told you bedtime stories?" He snorted. "That's pretty _weird_, Tala."

His momentary guardian looked away with a curt nod. "You'll have to tell _me_ one then, so this can't happen again."

Daichi grinned and resumed his earlier position, more comfortably sprawled with his bushy skull again on Tala's outstretched leg. "Okay," he said, looking ceiling-ward for inspiration. "I got one you'll like…"

Tala leaned his head back against the wall, smiling wanly.


	15. why'd you go

_Why'd You Go_

"You could have come back," he cried, adamant and pleading, chestnut stare bright with worry and wide in shock. "I didn't know where you were, and I tried to write – you'd moved somewhere. I couldn't find you, and I swear I tried… Did you change your name? Huh, Zeo? Of course you could have come back – I wanted you back. You're still my friend." Tyson reached out to the cerulean eyed boy, still so much thinner and weaker than he, wanting to envelop him in one of the shameless embraces he'd missed. Zeo looked so much like he needed it.

"That's good to hear, Tyson. You're still my _best friend_, even if you did forget all about me," the younger teenager doubtfully said, raking a hand through his lamentably short turquoise hair.

"But, Zeo, I tried to find you, all of us did! Even Kai said you had to have been – been taken away, kicking and screaming… He said so, 'cause you'd never leave on your own. Weren't you taken away?"

"That's not the point! Maybe you looked, but… you _didn't find me_! I wanted you to find me _so much_…"

Tyson hugged the sobbing Zeo, caught up in self-loathing.


	16. unique

_Unique_

Hilary stood on her toes, pawing through one of the higher kitchen cupboards for her usual breakfast cereal. Stretching to her tallest, fingers brushing the shelf-back, chances were it was already long gone. With a defeated sigh and roll of her eyes, she sank back to the floor. Nothing deterred Tyson in midnight snacking mode… He did it to everybody. He treated her quite the same as the other guys. Cereal was probably a poor example, but she'd never felt very special…

"Good morning, beautiful," Max yawned, stepping into the room, orange nightcap on his head and sleep in his eyes. He rubbed the sleeve of his tangerine colored shirt across his gaze, and then blinked at a Hilary clothed for the summer heat in a pink tank top and pair of underwear. As a mere teammate, she dressed however she wanted to.

The girl turned and smiled at Max, reminded, to her pleasure, of one person that could make a girl feel appreciated. "Hey, Max—"

"Mornin', beautiful," the blonde half-American repeated to a sleepy-looking Rei drifting through the door, who gave only an incredulous snort in return greeting.

Hilary stared, newly forlorn, mourning the repeat murder of specialty.


	17. better admit it

_Better Admit It_

"Do you know what the others are saying?"

She tensed, wondering if this could be about – wondering if they'd noticed how often she came to watch over him on nights like these, perched on his garden wall, shadowed by the old tree with the tire swing.

"…They want to go home," Ozuma elaborated in his grim baritone, settling down beside her. His emerald eyes fell darkly on the lighted window of the sacred-bit bearer Miriam had taken to stalking, or – "protecting," as the St. Shields saw it.

"Oh. What do you want to do?" she replied, trying to sound nonchalant. But Ozuma, her oldest friend and fearless leader, had the annoying ability of reading her like a book; sensing her underlying nerves, he smiled.

"Haven't decided yet," the stocky boy admitted, leaning back to regard the black sky. "There hasn't been an attack on the sacred spirits for months, and we aren't here as babysitters for their bearers. I'm sure Kon'll head back to China soon and I know Joseph doesn't want to follow him… It'd be nice to see home again." He shrugged. "Really, Miriam – what's there to stay for?"

She stared, speechless, as Max's bedroom light flickered out.


	18. authority

_Authority_

It was called the Red Party. Everybody thought that was a good laugh, because Kai, Russian, Communism… They filed up to the dingy, darkened rave doors, laughing gleefully, to be inspected by the gigantic doorman. He stared in grim appraisal at the boys, who'd had their growth spurts and dressed to look the part (and in Maxie's case, sounded it, with his amusingly low voice), but rather doubtfully at Hilary, still petite and girlish, with the wide-eyed, nervous body-language of youth and inexperience. She glared back.

"Hey, she's with us," Tyson haughtily said, hugging the female's slim shoulders. The doorman nevertheless crossed his arms and frowned, silent, but obviously denying them entry on the basis of the company they kept.

Just then Kai emerged from the back of the hoard in all his black-studded, mature-looking, solemn glory. "And they're with _me_," he growled, to which their obstacle immediately withered, bowing out of the way apologetically, again on the basis of the company they kept.

"Do you know that guy? Huh, Kai?" Tyson asked as he followed, pouting and not a little resentful.

"No," the older 'blader grunted, stalking along ahead in case anybody else might take issue with his friends.

* * *

_Author's Notes: _We actually have a "Red Party," hereabouts. And it is, truthfully, a Communist rave. The possibilities are endless. 


	19. crawling back

_Crawling Back_

Mom's home. For three days we've pretended everything's okay. I get tired of this: her showing up with a suitcase, apologetic. Sometimes I wish she'd go… There's nothing wrong with _me_. _She _thinks the past never happened, we just pretend. I never understood how she lets dad lead, dancing… she's not the type. Well, she knows that when the song ends she can start another argument, leave, and oh no the world's ending again. Oh god it's our fault she's angry again. Dad blames himself – they fight, as usual, not long after a contrived family dinner and dancing and make-up sex. That's what's really sick: their waste of time on those "happy couple" nights, when they know it won't matter come morning. She'll still have the power and she'll take it and run. I feel sorry for dad; he never means to hurt anybody. I'm sorry for myself. She'll be pissed and it'll be oh god it's my fault she's packing up again. Who knows why she bothers to _un_pack. Then it'll be a quiet while where I forget her face and I'll miss her, and then she'll show up and repeat as needed. Sometimes I wish she'd just go.

* * *

_Author's Notes: _Poor Maxie. I hate his mother so very, very much. 


	20. prodigy

_Prodigy_

Bryan respected power, not people. Towards the more powerful he directed a 'soldier ask not' mentality and took orders well. Unpredictable, aggressive, he _took _orders well, without any guarantee he'd _follow_ them. Bryan was opportunistic. Sly and adaptable – rarely caught off guard. Brutal, a true sociopath.

In the Abbey War Games Bryan practiced "total warfare:" tackling enemy lines in a wide-spread wave, pillaging, burning, shooting and maiming _every_thing. He won battles easily, half of his army getting killed in the process. He didn't care – he just liked to win.

As a commanding general, Tala rarely lost time or lives – efficient, stalwart, inspired… too graceful for Bryan. Ian hardly fought – assassinating certain offending parties and overthrowing entire nations in a night's span… too indirect for Bryan. Spencer was well-rounded, impassive, never making a false move… too lack-luster for Bryan.

As a commanding general, Boris Balcov was mean, rough, and tightly-wound. He gave orders well, made decisions instantly, and had no patience for mistakes or humanity. He loved to win. He was brutal, a true sociopath.

Boris Balcov sent Tala, Ian, and Spencer to the "field" to try their managerial hands – he kept Bryan by his side, teaching him everything he knew.


	21. captive

_Captive_

"Kenny," the expressive, disembodied female voice sobbed. "You tried to hide it. You knew—"

"Dizzi!" he bleated, panicked.

"You knew! How to get me out… How could you do this!"

"Dizzi, I couldn't, I—"

"Couldn't! You _wouldn't_! I'm a _bit beast_, Kenny. I thought I was trapped! I could've been in a beyblade – I wouldn't be _stuck in here_!"

"Dizz… I'm no beyblader. I can't fight…"

"You didn't try," she snarled. "You were so afraid of trying that you screwed me over!"

"That's not it… Dizzi, I, I need you. You'd go where I can't follow!"

"Well fuck you! I don't belong here!"

"Please don't be angry."

How _could _he? He was the _Chief_: nothing without Dizzara's hold, without Dizzara's push foreword. Kenny thought he'd lose everything without her help. He thought that messing up, battling, he'd lose _her_.

He was losing her anyway. He didn't need a systems check to say so; he just felt it. She was leaving because he'd betrayed her.

"Dizz, don't be that way. Don't go – cummon… It's not too late."

Silence.

Frantic, he immediately decided to win her back. He'd become a beyblader like she wanted to show her he… was sorry.

* * *

_Author's Notes: _-wolfish smile- I was wondering where Dizzi went in season 3… Well, actually I was wondering why the writers didn't give her a decent writing-out like any legitimate character. So pfft, I gave her one myself. Also trying to explain to myself what on earth would possess _Kenny _to be a _beyblader_. 


	22. foreboding

_Foreboding_

A dank, miserable orphanage housing violent, destitute children. All the better…

He had paused in a sort of rec room: a tall, imposing figure of dark clothing and anemic skin, smirking serenely to himself, hawk-like eyes keenly tracing the small, delicate facial features of the baby held dispassionately in his powerful arms.

"Are you _sure_, sir? _Really_?" a pathetic slip of a woman director asked for the thousandth time, hand fluttering uncertainly near her throat. He was convinced she didn't care about the baby – or it might have sounded like she was arguing, begging. She was only surprised, because: "_That_, sir? Are you sh—"

His uplifted hand cut her off. He didn't look away from the deathly pale face of the child, deeply asleep, malnourished. Called a thing – a that. Not "that _one"_… just "that." A creature, disgusting…

He disagreed with her. "I need to sign something for him." A demand.

She stared a moment before turning away.

"What's the name?" Another demand.

"Yuriy," she replied, leaving the room.

He smirked the confident smirk. "You deserve better than this, Yuriy," he said, and was at that tiny moment, for the first and last time in his life… a father.


	23. potential

_Potential_

Max was an A+ student, glad he didn't attend school with Tyson, Hilary and Kenny—he possessed a drive to avoid conflict almost as pronounced as Rei's. While Tyson might have enjoyed a more patient tutor than Kenny, teaching, helping on or explaining homework, and pulling any markedly intellectual feats were not Max's department. When he'd first met Kenny there'd been some friction—some momentary insecurity on the bespectacled boy's side, about the position of most-clever-Chief-without-whom-all-would-be-lost… Max wasn't one to muddy old waters, so he stuck to his online courses—all AP, in the American style—under his mother's regulation and father's encouragement. Being home schooled was lonely, but probably best. He hadn't any desire to cause discomfort—things _were _comfortable. Everybody had their roles. Max was the golden-hearted, moon-eyed puppy, existence a continuous blonde moment. Yet privately (and in those shining, shocking bey-stadium displays) he was the engineer, every twitch of the blade formulated and controlled flawlessly. He was the intellectual, despite his carefree outlook. Things were sad, admittedly, but comfortable. He stuck to his part, nose out of Tyson's schooling, and was granted a formidable advantage—catching would-be superiors that bought into the whole façade by total surprise.


	24. foot in mouth disease

_Foot-In-Mouth Disease_

Lee was angry again. So he took it out on Mystel, the only person at the training camp that wasn't avoiding him. In the wrong place at the wrong time, Mystel smiled up at the emotionally unstable 'tiger's beet-red face and blazing eyes, wondering what'd gotten his goat.

"Why are you _here_! The 'hills aren't open to tourists, so–g-get out!" Lee shrieked, moving to forcibly oust the Egyptian bur-in-his-side. "You have no _use_! You only—you don't do _any_thing!"

"If you're saying I don't work, that's not true. I do just as much, if not more than Kevin."

Mystel thought, as he smartly side-stepped Lee's violent charge, that he most certainly did _more. _In any case, Lee whipped around and punched the coquettish boy in the face before he'd had a chance to say so.

"Go _home_! You've got a home! So _go_!" the White Tiger bellowed, rage crackling tangibly off his sinewy form as he watched Mystel tumbling back to his feet with all the flexibility of an invertebrate.

"No, I _don't_!" Mystel stood there, annoyed, blushing hotly with the newly revealed shame of purposelessness… homelessness. "…Where am I supposed to go?"

And Lee stared at him, dumbstruck.


	25. animal testing

_Animal Testing_

They were given a dog by the team of psychiatrists to gauge their levels of paternal instinct. If it lived, that was a good sign. If one of the boys bonded with it, even better.

But it died soon after, and nobody bonds with a dead dog.

Three progressively hardier canines later and one lived. Bryan named it Kostya and fed it raw meat. Trained it to be an attack dog; it only listened to him – then eventually, after some persuasion, to Tala. It lived outside on a very thick chain. The chain was Tala's idea.

Kostya tried to kill anybody (besides Bryan or Tala) walking by. It nearly disemboweled Ian in one instance because he'd misjudged the chain's length. It usually sat in the snow, silent, something psychotic glistening in its cool gray eyes.

When the psychiatrists saw and almost had their throats torn out, they looked at Bryan with new respect. They spoke of cycles of abuse, agreeing to each other for a while until Tala said they had to go because the dog got hungry at dinner time.

They glanced at Bryan's, then at Kostya's cool gray eyes, turned, left without another word, and never came back.


	26. expectations

_Expectations_

"It's hard to lead them," Rei admitted. He gazed at the White Tigers, sitting across the diner, eating energetically, unhearing. Rei couldn't apologize for the truth… only—soften it by explaining.

"The village was obsessed with being 'worthy' of Byakko… If you weren't, you didn't deserve to lead the team. There's all these guidelines. Morality, tradition—courage—traits they write on dojo walls that nobody really has, not all at once. Byakko's left before because I wasn't good enough. I wasn't worthy…"

He smiled doubtfully. "I guess I am now. Bya hasn't said a word about it. Just… It's a pain to have to be so strong. It takes a real hardass to lead the 'Tigers—that's what's expected. Everyone's looking for the tiniest signs—that you're not good enough. Not worthy.

"Maybe that's why I was so scared in the village. I didn't want to disappoint anyone; I didn't want them to take Byakko away from me if I screwed up." He spoke like it was a confessional, like these were dirty little secrets. "I'm no hardass, am I? It's tiring… It's what messed up Lee… It's really, really hard to lead them."

Kai stood up, cross, but otherwise indifferent. "Then don't."


	27. mistaken identity

_Mistaken Identity_

"MONKEY!" Tyson shrieked, sliding into the dojo on his socks, skidding to a halt with his face red, eyes blazing, index finger pointing accusingly off into space. "What… did… you… DO!" the infuriated boy snarled, slipping on the freshly buffed flooring, struggling to remain upright and terrifying.

The White Tigers and BBA Revolutions blinked back at Tyson, stunned, frozen in what _had _been varying states of activity.

Rei, Max, and Lee were modifying Galleon, weight disks scattered across the floor. Kenny's laptop lay open nearby, the Chief's fingers paused mid-keystroke. Mariah had been allowing Hilary to French braid her hair, Gary looking attentively on. Kai leaned apathetically next to the door heading outside.

Kevin and Daichi, having been doing God knows what, took one look at Tyson's face… and bolted for opposite doors at exactly the same moment.

"HEY!" Tyson bellowed, sliding further in pursuit.

Daichi tripped over Kai's neatly outstretched foot on his way outdoors and went crashing into the wall.

Lee simultaneously tackled Kevin into the ground.

Kai and Lee, respectively stepping on and head-locking the 'monkey' of the 'Tigers and that of the 'Revolutions, looked at one another. "Which one did you _want_..?" they asked Tyson.


	28. family

_Family_

Kane Yamashita and Hiro Kinomiya stared at one another across the dinner table. Tyson, pleasantly oblivious to the tense, wordless power-struggle, bickered with Daichi over who was more entitled to the last shrimp. Neither of them noticed that Kane and Hiro, for the past hour of contact with one another, had been competing—for Tyson.

It began with the airy introduction: "Kane, that's Hiro—he's my brother and sorta coach; recognize him? Hiro, this is Kane, he's the leader of the Psykicks and pretty much our brother too; he's staying for dinner. Be nice to each other, 'cause we're all related."

Kane hadn't known Tyson had a real brother. Hiro hadn't known Tyson had a fake brother. They didn't like it, both having felt secure in their roles up until that moment. Glowering into each other's eyes, the two young men mentally listed the reasons that they were better brothers. They wanted to know who was more entitled to Tyson.

And then Rei walked into the room. Kane and Hiro immediately shot the Chinese boy a glare that he blinked at, and then returned three-fold, equally unwilling to concede his own position as Tyson's brother.

Tyson cheered, having won the shrimp.


	29. who's a father?

_Who's a Father?_

"Know what, Gar..?" Kylie asked, standing beside her brother at the kitchen sink, following his sober eyes out into the landscaped yard. "You're taking care of a seven year old—" she smiled, watching Brooklyn crouched in a flower bed, pressing his ear against the dirt to hear roots growing.—"'Cause he's like a little kid."

Garland threw the blonde a suspicious glance. "Think I can't handle it?"

Kylie grinned, turning to lean against the edge of the counter. "I didn't say that. But—don't you think you're kinda young to be a father?" There was no disapproval or worry in her voice. Only amusement.

Garland stared wordlessly into the sink, trying to will the flustered blush off his face.

Unfortunately, Brooklyn chose that second to barrel in through the glass backdoor, kicking off his shoes as he crossed the room towards them, making a pleased sighing noise. He grabbed Kylie's hands to deposit a ladybug, before wheeling on Garland, standing on his toes to plant a quick kiss on the boy's cheek. He then picked up his shoes and went back outside.

…

Kylie burst out laughing, and her brother hid his brightest blush yet, chuckling in helpless embarrassment.


	30. war dogs

_War Dogs_

"Why are you here?"

Hiro wouldn't have responded, but Kai's tone unnerved him. Clearly the boy thought he was up to no good, lurking around his own home at two in the morning, packing his own clothes into his own duffel bag… minding his own business… "Why don't you mind your own business?"

"Between midnight and seven AM, who comes in or out of this dojo _is_ my business."

Hiro paused… Tyson fell asleep near midnight. Best case, he'd wake up near seven. Hiro resumed folding a t-shirt. Kai sounded about three yards away. In the door. Blocking the exit. "Sure. You make an excellent guard dog… when you're actually around."

"And you make a terrible brother. When you're around."

Hiro sneered.

"Leaving again? Good. Tyson doesn't need you… Will you say goodbye to him?"

Hiro turned sharply, bearing down on the Russian. Kai didn't move, unafraid. "Why are you involving yourself in my family's business?" Hiro growled, thinking that they were all much better off without Kai.

"Just returning a favor," Kai responded—and with a final defiant stare, allowed the Kinomiya to go—thinking that they were all a hell of a lot better off without Hiro.

* * *

_a/n:_ I agree with Kai. Anyway, if you guys want to request a drabble, any subject matter, any character... please do. I like writing these, but I'm not in the mood to brainstorm ideas. Yaaaaarrrr... 


	31. cryptic, much?

_Cryptic, much?_

"I get it," Hiro said smugly from across the room, freezing Rei mid-chop.

The White Tiger's knife quivered over the partially sliced cucumber sitting on the cutting board, anticipating Hiro's imminent criticism. Rei wordlessly chastised his hand into stillness, slowly, deliberately half-turning his face to watch the older of the Kinomiya brothers from the corner of a wary golden eye.

Hiro's face was blank, but his gaze danced with something malicious and familiar. His arms were crossed. He leaned in the doorframe. This was full Coach-Hiro mode. Rei didn't like it.

_I don't like you_, he thought, holding the knife tightly.

Sometimes, Rei secretly observed, Hiro got off on hurting people. He seemed to have a real yen for inflicting psychological trauma. He pressed people too hard… on purpose. He liked making them squirm. He liked knowing that he'd caused squirming.

Hiro liked power that way.

The older of the Kinomiya brothers smirked coldly, then turned and left Rei alone in the kitchen. No elaboration what. so. ever. Left Rei alone, standing there, half-turned and shocked and panicked, staring after, golden eyes afire with confusion and thoughts like, _WAIT! What IS it?! What DO YOU GET, HIRO?! _

Hiro liked that.

* * *

_A/N: _I have a real obsession with people in doorframes... Anyway, this drabble goes with the next one, so... 


	32. not so cryptic

_not so cryptic_

"So, I realized today during you guys's practice," Hiro said at dinner that night, taking advantage of a natural lull in the conversation, "that Rei is the fall guy."

…

Kai had tensed at the word "practice", because that usually forewarned of some deeply unwelcome advice. But he _remained_ tense for another reason entirely, red-violet eyes flashing back and forth between Hiro's face and Rei's face. Hiro's face and Rei's face.

_Oh_, Rei's expression said. _Oh… _

_I get it…_

But Tyson and Max did not, so Hiro continued, the smugness from earlier in the kitchen returning, "I mean, Tyson is the hero. The ace in the sleeve kind of guy—not to give you a big head, little brother. Max is the genius. Kai is—Kai is Kai. And Rei… well, Rei's the fall guy."

They still didn't get it.

Kai closed his eyes. Rei stared at his steak knife.

"Rei loses," Hiro said cheerfully. "Rei loses a lot. If anyone on your team loses, it's Rei. It's like he's the weak link or something."

Tyson and Max… just looked at Hiro, speechless.

Hiro smiled, chewing on a piece of hamburger. "It's that, well, I _get _it now," he added.

* * *

_A/N: _I once described Rei as my highest reverence. Sometimes I wish the writers had shared the sentiment. 


	33. stick in the mud

_stick in the mud_

His mom's blonde hair and blue eyes and petite stature. Dad's unfortunate fashion sense and infectious humor. Intelligence and self-confidence from both of them.

No one knew who'd given Max freckles. Tarou joked about a visiting milkman… Judy gave him a steady, disapproving look, and said something airy about a second-cousin with the same affliction.

Max didn't think it was an affliction. He considered himself cute enough to _lick_. Especially with freckles. Utterly lickable. Freckles probably tasted wicked good.

"Maybe you've never had freckles 'cause you hang out in a lab all day, getting pasty," Max innocently suggested, giving his mom a blazing grin. His father's grin.

Judy stared at her son, one perfectly manicured hand slowly rising to touch her peaches-and-crème face, trembling a little. _Pasty_..? "What?" In the background, Tarou burst out laughing.

Standing from the table, rice bowl in hand, Max reached across and poked Judy gently on the nose. "I think I see a freckle coming on, Mom; better be careful."

_Freckle..? PASTY? _"Wh-what..?"

"I think freckles make people look human," Tarou giggled, watching his ex-wife's _perfect _face grow cold.

"Humans are _lickable_, mom," Max added, joining his dad's laughter.

Judy gazed at them steadily, disapprovingly.


	34. pay in flesh

_pay in flesh_

They liked Tyson, in their way. Even though he'd ruined their lives, he hadn't meant anything by it. Even if he shattered their hopes and dreams and doomed them to years of desperation and misery, he hadn't meant it. He hadn't done it on purpose. What happened to them—it was a side-effect, an accident.

You couldn't blame Tyson. He never planned ahead. He never considered the consequences of his actions. He never thought about what losing does to people who should never lose… Can't handle losing…

They liked Tyson, despite themselves. They knew it was wrong—they knew it would be easier if they just… hated him… They knew that would make more sense. But you couldn't blame Tyson. He never meant anything by it.

He never knew, when he dealt the final blow, that he was destroying more than their chances in a tournament. He never saw pride crumbling, willpower waning—he never saw the shadows creeping into their eyes. He was never present for the locker room meltdowns, where self-loathing manifested itself in shaking shoulders and downcast stares of frustration and pain.

He wasn't a _mind reader_, after all. How could he know that… that his success… meant their destruction..?


	35. gah!

_Gah! _

There was something _weird _going on.

Or, at least the rest of the All-Starz thought so. "I mean," Michael said during training, giving the shirtless Rick across the gym a suspicious look, "he doesn't even bother putting on _clothes _to talk to her." Noting the sweat glistening on Rick's tanned skin, he rolled his eyes. "It's fricking creepy."

"I think she likes him," Emily brightly chimed in—before lowering her voice, "If you know what I mean." Her eyes flashed to Judy, casually handing Rick a bottle of water. _Not _handing him his towel. Emily's lip curled.

"No wonder she gives him all the best stuff. When was the last time she gave _my _blade a tune-up?"

"Seriously. It's because you're not an exhibitionist."

"What d'you think they're _saying.._?" Max interrupted with a fascinated little giggle, making his teammates jump. He'd suddenly appeared, leaning past their elbows to get a good view of Rick and his mom. Emily and Michael gawked.

Max grinned, straightening up, blue eyes playful. "Look, they already _know _you're watching them."

The All-Starz froze, horrified, then slowly turned their faces to Judy and Rick. The pair gazed back, smiling. Rick, towel draped over his shoulder, waved

* * *

_A/N: _Oh cummon—it's so _totally _weird between those two… …I luff it. 


	36. say anything

_say anything_

When Hiro left the former BEGA, with whom he lived, to spend a few weeks training them, he tried hard to keep Tyson and Kai away from each other. It wasn't because a serious battle could demolish entire buildings or uproot the whole park, and it wasn't that Kai went out of his way to undermine Hiro's authority (assuming he showed up to practice at all)—it wasn't about Kai. Hiro reminded himself often that it was _never _about Kai.

It was about Tyson. Always.

And Tyson listened too hard to Kai's voice. He waited too long for Kai's voice coming from the sidelines. He depended too much on that _voice_, regardless of what it actually said. It was the _tone _Kai could get into his voice. This boom, this demand, that Tyson just jumped to obey.

Tyson got himself into precarious situations. He threw a couple of battles (Hiro KNEW they were thrown) _just _so he could hear Kai's voice. Telling him to focus. Telling him to stop making stupid mistakes. Telling him, "If you can't take this seriously, I'm leaving." Telling him anything. The words didn't matter.

Just to hear that rare, beautiful voice. Saying _something_.

To _him._


	37. good luck with that

_good luck with that_

Lee and Tyson had a bet that there was a snowflake's chance in_ hell_ of Tyson getting a picture of Tala's hair soaking wet.

The pool was high now, with the All Starz having joined in on the action, and Tyson had really begun to feel the pressure.

But how, oh how, to get a picture of Tala's head in its natural, un-sculpted state? He'd nearly gotten his arm ripped off the month prior by touching it (everyone was _dying _to know if the pointy edges could _cut_), when Tala'd whipped around and saw what he was doing. Furthermore, the Blitz Boys were wholly camera shy. They just kind of—disappeared… the moment Tyson pulled one out—so hosing Tala down in public was impossible.

But he'd broken into their hotel room… He had inside information (Ian could be bought) that Tala didn't lock the door while showering… Earlier, his arm had nearly been ripped off (again) when he'd "accidentally" poured his soda into Tala's lap… Tala hated being dirty… Tala was in the shower…

And Tyson stood outside the bathroom door, listening, one hand outstretched, the other clutching his camera, just about to act, when—

Behind him, Brian snarled.


	38. maneater

_Man-eater_

"So, Sal, when're you coming to visit me here?" Rei coolly asked the phone propped between his tilted head and shoulder, adding a few things to the bottom of the Kinomiya Shopping List magneted to the side of the fridge. He paused, pen tapping the scrap of paper, wondering what Mariah would like for dinner.

"Oh, as soon as possible, if I have any say in it," Salima replied from across the line, chuckling melodiously about the nickname Rei had given her. "Kane's very attached to Thailand, though."

"Mm, well, Kane's very attached to _Tyson_. That fact, presented in a thick layer of feminine wiles, should just about do the trick."

"What do _you_ know about feminine wiles, Rei?"

"…A thing or two," he said, a smile in his voice, watching Mariah leave the guest bedroom with her hair soaking wet, dressed in nothing but a towel. He covered the receiver with his hand, calling cheerfully out to the White Tiger, "Moe! You'll give Gramps a stroke walking around like that!"

Mariah turned, tossing her hair over her shoulder, and lifted a finger cutely to her lips. She looked thoughtful. "Think it'll get me out of doing the dishes tonight?"

* * *

_A/N: _I refer to Salima and Mariah as Sal and Moe on a regular basis… I figure it's pretty sexy. 


	39. fundamental kai

_Fundamental Kai _

It was a matter of pride. They never asked if he was going to be okay. He never lied to them that he was going to be okay. When he dragged himself away to lick his wounds, alone, no one ever followed him. He never let them follow him. He never allowed them to be concerned. If they had followed—if they saw him that way, weak… it all would have been over. For him. He would never recover. He couldn't let them see him that way. It was a matter of pride. It was a matter of strength. He was strong. He was strong, even when he was weak. He was strong as long as they thought he was strong. He was strong as long as they never saw his weakness. He was happy to collapse there, alone. He was happy no one saw him that way. He was happy to keep his pride. It was all he had. It was all he had that he could never let them take away from him—through concern, through… through knowing that he was weak. It was all he had that he could keep from them. He was proud of that.


	40. outside fundamental kai

_Outside Fundamental Kai_

It was a matter of pride. In him.

They never asked if we was going to be okay, so he never had to look at them with eyes that said, "are you fucking kidding me..?"

It would have been a joke. Because this was Kai. If there was anyone on earth you didn't have to worry about, it was Kai.

They didn't know their limit. He was gone for hours. Days.

Months.

Miss him—that took a week. Fear for him..? Fear for him?

No,_ never_—this, this was Kai. And—

He came back before anyone... So they never tried to follow him. They never tried to find him. Because maybe they understood—that he needed this of them. That this was all he asked of them. That they leave him to it. That they grant him his pride.

It was a matter of pride… in Kai.

The one you didn't worry about. Even if he was broken on the floor, breathless, bleeding. Even if you didn't know where he'd gone or what had happened to him—you just couldn't be afraid. You couldn't treat Kai like a human. This was _Kai… _and that… doing that would be a joke…


	41. understanding

_Understanding _

Moses wasn't sure about Brooklyn yet.

He knew Ming-Ming's favorite color, food, memory, and venue. He knew the music she listened to was nothing like the music she sang, that she'd always wanted a huge family full of old people and babies, and that she preferred cool temperatures over hot ones, though acknowledging that summer allowed revealing bathing suits.

He could remember and pronounce Mystel's fifteen-part name, keep track of his erratic movements, and understand his bazaar jokes. He knew that Mystel had once been afraid of heights, until falling and realizing falling was an extremely appropriate metaphor and now regarded every facet of life as a controlled fall.

He knew that Garland hadn't opened his book of family principles since Tyson, and talked to Tyson often, and tried arranging meetings with Kai who tended to hang up on him. He knew that Garland was doing some soul searching, questioning what he'd always believed in, and becoming a better person for it.

Moses knew that Ming-Ming, Mystel, and Garland loved the team and wanted to stay together. But looking at Brooklyn feeding the ducks, tossing him a shy sort of indifferent look, replying to the stare—Moses just wasn't sure.

* * *

_A/N:_ All BEGA drabbles are brought to you for **feather-duster**. With whom all things are possible 


	42. awkward

_Awkward_

Tyson wasn't taking it very well.

So they stood around awkwardly, trying not to look at each other, saying soft things like, "Man, sorry—I guess, uh…"

Because they'd just assumed that he—he knew… They were brothers after all. They—didn't they talk at all, ever, a little bit? There were, there were cell phones and all…you know. There were conversations and weren't—weren't there silly questions like, "So how are you? _Where _are you?" And the truth… wasn't there the truth? They were brothers, wasn't there—talk of living arrangements? Of—of where Hiro would _be.._? Wasn't there talk of why Hiro would be at Garland's—with Brooklyn, you know, with the older C-Bolt kids, with… Why he would be with Ming-Ming and Moses and Monica—or maybe in a hotel, you _know_, maybe, alone, you know, uh… Wasn't there talk of why he would maybe be traveling..?

But that was the problem, Tyson sort of screamed. Because he wasn't traveling!

He was here, but he wasn't with me! He was here but he didn't tell me he was here so he wouldn't be with ME!

Tyson screamed. And wasn't taking it well.

And Hiro didn't come home.


	43. bringin' it all home

_bringin' it all home_

"Look, Tyson…" Hiro would argue—trying to sound logical. Sounding like a jerk. "You never freak out when Kai takes off for a while."

It's SO not the same! Tyson would shriek. It's so not even the same at all! You're my BROTHER! But you're not here for me and at least—at least Kai… he's here for me! He's never…

"Betrayed you?" Hiro would snap. "You think this is a betrayal..? You think Kai has never _betrayed you_?"

It's not the same thing! It's not even the same thing at all! A-at least when Kai leaves he…

"Gives you a call? Tells you where he is? Tyson, I knew you'd react this way!"

You chose them over ME!

"YES I DID! … … You know why Kai never tells you were he is..? He doesn't want you chasing after him. He knows you, like I know you, and I knew you'd follow me. I don't like to be _followed_, Tyson. And Kai doesn't like to be followed."

I hate you…

"Then you hate both of us."

THEN I HATE BOTH OF YOU!

…

And Kai would quietly stand up, and would quietly leave the room, and Tyson wouldn't notice.


	44. yet

_Yet_

Garland did his best. He was afraid that if Brooklyn became bored… he'd disappear never to return. So Garland did his best to keep Brooklyn amused. This involved outings. Trips with three or four or five or six people keeping them company, to places Garland hoped Brooklyn had never been. But invariably, they'd arrive and Brooklyn would smile and Garland would have an inkling, an annoying feeling, that Brooklyn had seen it all before. Brooklyn was not impressed. Amused, maybe, for his sake… But not impressed.

Garland always felt a little let down by Brooklyn's humoring smiles. Brooklyn's childish need to humor Garland who he knew was doing his very best to keep him amused, keep him put. Brooklyn knew Garland wanted to keep him put. It felt nice to have so much power. The ability to make someone happy with staying or sad with leaving. It felt nice to know that when he left, he left Garland looking out the window, terrified of everything uncontrollable. It felt nice to know that when he stayed, Garland looked out the window, terrified of losing control.

Brooklyn_ tried_ not to disappear. Or at least—he always tried to return. Not bored yet.


	45. good things 1

_Good Things # 1_

There were good things about Hiro.

Hiro got results. Hiro looked good in the rain. Hiro had excellent balance and was a very fast sprinter. Hiro could easily avoid projectiles. Hiro looked dramatic leaning against doorframes, and didn't let his emotions cloud his usually good judgment. Usually.

Hiro was persuasive. Hiro could get people to do things that they couldn't possibly do, given their condition. Hiro zeroed in on the strongest link immediately. Hiro tried to make people their personal best, even though their personal best was never good enough for him. Hiro was intimidating. Hiro was self-possessed and determined. Hiro was free as a fucking bird.

Hiro saw to the heart of the matter. Hiro was nice. Sometimes.

Hiro had an alter-ego who was still a jerk, but nicer than his usual self. Hiro used his alter-ego for the good of the many. Like a superhero or something.

Hiro knew exactly what he wanted and went for it. Hiro wasn't afraid of hurting people or hurting himself. Hiro thought he was necessary, so he was unfailingly self-confident in every situation. Hiro wasn't afraid of looking like an idiot, which kept him from looking like an idiot.

Hiro didn't apologize.

* * *

_A/N: _The Good Things, now just 1 and 2... are about the characters of Beyblade I despise. And that... there are good things about them too. Good things that help me hate them. It's never because they're bad characters. It's the fact that they're good characters that gives me so much canon fodder. So much to hate. So much depth to hate. The last lines of these drabbles are the most important.

I thought it would be an interesting assignment for me to figure out my opinions on these people. Hiro, Judy... eventually Mr. D, Bryan, Brooke...


	46. good things 2

_Good Things # 2_

There were good things about Judy, also.

Judy always remembered to send Christmas presents and Birthday presents. Judy paid attention in school, so she had a good education and many opportunities. Judy was genial. Judy was diplomatic. Judy glossed over the messy details, or faced them head-on and made them seem profoundly _messy_.

Judy took control. Judy was brave because she knew she was too pretty to hit. Judy easily called in favors. Judy was owed many favors. Judy was organized and kept the favors she was owed by the people who owed them in a file in her desk at work, and a copy at home, and a copy at the office, and carried one in her planner, with all the numbers for the people who owed her favors listed alongside.

Judy loved her son. Most of the time.

Judy was a strategist. Judy was a genius, which helped with her strategy.

Judy was good with children. In a way.

Judy never explained herself. Judy was merciless. Judy was never nice to people who weren't worth the effort. Judy economized. Judy prioritized. Judy dressed well and always had her nails manicured—another part of her strategy.

Judy loved herself.


	47. jealous?

_Jealous?_

When a copy of _People_ magazine burst through the dojo doors, held aloft in the triumphant-by-proxy hands of Hilary, that declared in none-too-understated terms that Rei, opposite Mariah, was the sexiest beyblader alive… it was an event.

A party was thrown.

The highly emotive article, page 5, was read aloud and the photos shared. Photos of Rei shirtless; Rei turning with a surprised smile; Rei half-poneytailed with eerily glimmering eyes—paparazzi photos, the contexts thereof at least one of the bladers at the party could identify: last month's beach-Rei, the latest expo's greeting-Rei, last weekend's threatening to rub Tyson's nose in the mess he'd made of their hotel room-Rei…

There was an auction for clippings. The cover (from a White Tiger X photo-shoot: Rei and Mariah, embracing, giving the camera "come hither" looks to rival Julia and Raul's) found a frame and went to the beyblader that could most convincingly deliver a pickup line to Rei… Bonus prizes to any that made him blush.

Everyone loved it. Except Kai, who eventually got to see the article, scanning it vaguely, feeling oddly annoyed and entitled, zeroing in on _his _name, at the bottom… "Kai Hiwatari"… in a list of Honorable Mentions.

* * *

_A/N: _...I couldn't help myself. ... ... -grin- 

And as for Mariah, well... baby's got back.


	48. trauma

_Trauma_

Miguel would have laughed that he didn't believe in vampires, up until one grabbed him and spun him around, staring down into his face with wide red eyes and a fanged white grin. But when one did just that, and the thought flashed across his mind, _VAMpire..?!_ he began to doubt earlier assumptions.

Claw-like fingers dug deep into his shoulder, but it was more the colorless face, three inches from his own, and the warm breath that smelled unnervingly of blood travelling from between taut vampire lips into his own gaping mouth… It wasn't the pain that made Miguel pale and sweaty and terrified. It was more the look, the realization, the reality-turned-upside-down… the smell of blood making everything taste like, taste like, like—

"MIGUEL!" Claude shrieked, dodging out of nowhere around a big hairy-blueish-wolfish person reaching out to stop him, not the vampire, but a, a…—

Miguel collapsed faintly against a wiry, supportive body, a blonde, green-eyed boy he barely knew shouldering his weight. He watched a red-haired, angry-eyed boy he knew slightly better stepping in front of them, speaking with… the… _monsters_…

But he couldn't hear, couldn't hear the words, around his own heartbeat thudding in his head

* * *

_A/N_: Inspired by the ending screenshot of Miguel looking freaked, supported by Enrique, behind Claude and Johnny, facing Sanguinex and Lupinex, undoubtedly. I can't believe no ones written about that scene yet. Cummon, guys! It's the Majestics and Barthez Junkies... bonding!! 


	49. charitable attitudes

_Charitable Attitudes_

Being benched from blading had given Emily time to perfect her singles game, and she was confident about crushing the opposition—though Eddy reminded her it _was _a tournament for _charity_… Emily just directed a humoring, icy eye at the laid-back basketball player, as she unzipped her tennis racquet. "Mmhm. And I'll win, won't I..? For _charity_."

But she hadn't counted on who, exactly, the opposition was: tall, athletically beautiful, a graceful blur of pink, white, and blonde… Kylie Seibalt smiled charismatically at the cameras on her way to the practice courts, on her way to the finals courts—_damn_, thought Emily bitterly, plucking at the collar of her blue uniform, shuffling her own gawky, bird-legged way in that general direction also, watching her irritatingly MALE teammates watch Kylie.

_So much for moral support._

Emily wouldn't have stood a chance even WITH moral support. She was a good beyblader and good tennis player… and maybe she'd have been great if she'd concentrated on one or the other, Kylie pleasantly said over bottles of water in the locker room afterwards. Emily thanked her, charmed to be worth the attention—

—and only thought to take the comment as an insult in retrospect.

* * *

_A/N_: Maybe if I knew the names of any of the other Seibalt (yay! new spelling!) kids, I'd write about them as much as I seem to write about Kylie... -cries- 


	50. second guess

_Second-guess_

No one questioned Ozuma's judgment.

When they returned home carrying an ancient rock empty of sacred spirits, voluntary failures in their life's mission, nobody put up a fuss. It was a mercifully quiet homecoming, without celebration or criticism. They solemnly returned the rock to its shrine, and solemnly prayed to their ancestors and the ancestors of their beasts.

No one said anything about this unexpected development in the natural order of things. No one wondered at the consequences of Ozuma's decision.

Except, that is, for Ozuma himself. It gnawed at him, as he strode confidently among the houses and fields, and bowed coolly at the shrine, and determinedly told them he was leaving the village. He didn't want to be around the rock anymore, if it meant questioning himself. Asking himself if he'd done the right—

They didn't plead. They didn't question him. He left without fanfare or bravado. Two weeks later, Miriam and Joseph followed. A day after that Dunga went too.

"To check up on them," Ozuma explained—though no one had asked—when the four Saint Shields reunited at the harbor. "To make sure I did the right thing.

…Do you think I did the right thing?"


	51. nagging questions

_Nagging Questions_

They said it was for the best.

And Kai's eyes narrowed, and he heaved himself up from his futon, sitting in the silence of a sleeping Kinomiya dojo, muscles tightening defiantly. Teeth clenching. Fists balling. Breath speeding up, hissing out of his lungs desperately. Black and red monsters waging war inside his brain.

In the silence of sleeping Kinomiya dojos, Kai often sat up, head tilted a little to the side, a little bowed, as he remembered and hated them for saying what was best. It was for the best. It was for… what? Sometimes he flopped back down onto his pillow, letting them, letting them, letting them make the decision. Letting them say what was best inside his heart over and over again.

Sometimes he gave in that way.

But some nights, in some oppressive silences, when his breath squeaked hotly out of his collapsing lungs, he pressed his will hard against the memory and their voices, their decisions. He viciously denied what they said was best. Some nights, when he felt especially weak and hated it, he wondered and wondered in a wash of black fire scalding his eyelids…

They said it was for the best.

Who's best?

* * *

_A/N_: This drabble and the next are dedicated to **Distant Storm**, after reading her "Things You Don't Deserve". Inspiration moves in mysterious ways for me. 


	52. nagging truths

_Nagging Truths_

Of course it was for the best!

Or at least—they tried to reassure themselves that it was… when he came to practice looking tired, tired of everything, tired of _them_ and Dranzer responded in a steadily widening series of circles until it was riding the lip of the beydish and then toppled limply onto the ground… and Kai seemed not to care… but then picked it up and turned around and walked away, ignoring them calling him back…

When Kai seemed lost in puzzling thoughts, and they knew he was reviewing his losses, identifying the exact moments that had turned it around, turned it against him, the exact moments fate had turned against him… They knew, when he finally blinked, that he had decided to blame himself. That he'd identified the exact moments he had turned it against himself—the exact mistakes he had made to turn fate against—

Certainly it was best this way… God knew what he would be like if he'd won, all those times. God knew what would happen to Kai if he won—God knew he'd have no reason to show up to practice at all. God knew he'd have no reason… to live…


	53. divergence

_Divergence_

Maybe they were left alone too often. Maybe it was because their dad was gone and their mom was a wreck. Maybe it was because their first life lesson was that strong people take what they want and weak people get screwed over. Maybe it was because they spent their formative years surrounded by people who were weak and got screwed over. Maybe they were bored with being weak.

Maybe that's why one day Queen broke their usual habit of embracing victimization and basking in the pity that resulted by suggesting, in a cold, sly, definitive, impulsive voice that she'd never adopted until that point and would retain for years to come, in every endeavor, "Let's be bad guys."

And they thought about it. And they smiled at one another. And they taught themselves a second life lesson.

Maybe that's what drove them from the Safe-Home for Battered Women where their mother lay in her bed and was a wreck, and where their dad wasn't allowed to go and never tried to go. Maybe that's when they learned to reject weakness and embrace strength.

And maybe that was why, when they snuck into movies, they always rooted for the villains.


	54. jeeze

_Jeeze_

Daichi's voice invaded Tyson's head—"You couldn't last five minutes alone with them!"—as he glanced shiftily at the corners of the elevator car, occupied by the four former Demolition Boys, with the wordless threat of being torn limb from limb circling vulture-like over his head.

_Daichi_ had survived five minutes with them. Barely, if it'd been true… Tala'd reportedly dropped him on his head outside their hotel room and given him a goodbye kick.

So despite the very real possibility of injury, Tyson couldn't back down. He'd never hear the end of it. And since the elevator became stuck between floors four minutes earlier, he actually… _couldn't back down_.

Tyson had nothing to distract him from the silence that traditionally stretched out between the Russian beybladers. He'd have napped, but nerve-wracking certainty that whatever he did in this situation would be profoundly_ wrong_ stifled the sleep-inducing boredom.

Tala sawed at the wires behind the button-console with Wolborg. The others stared at Tyson like predators waiting for their injured prey to fall to the ground so they could pounce. Tyson looked evasively at his watch, clearing his throat of the cloying quiet. _Six minutes and thirty seconds… Beat that, Daichi...  
_

* * *

_A/N_: Why is it I only ever have Tyson interacting with the Demo Boys on some kind of bet..?_  
_


	55. ousted

_Ousted_

It was rare in their generation to find anybody with a completely intact family, let alone a large one. In general, beybladers took solace in their teams or themselves, and just didn't worry about it.

Garland, however, worried about it. He valued his teammates, no doubt, but they were friends—not siblings (this mental distinction prevented him from comprehending Tyson's relationships with people, many times), and his siblings demanded his attention just as much and deserved his attention maybe more.

He struggled with the balance on holidays, when his team stormed the barely-big-enough house that his parents enthusiastically opened to them.

Garland would suddenly belong to a family of eight, a team of five. A household of thirteen.

The pecking order went into overdrive. He was "the baby" and his brothers and sisters enjoyed exploiting it. Even more so around the team he was supposed to be captaining. They set a bad example.

Undermined and overwhelmed, Garland often found himself standing in the Seibalt family living room, trying to find a place to sit among eleven young-adultish bodies: teammates and siblings interspersed in what he nervously imagined was an attempt to confuse him and prevent him from watching the movie.

* * *

_A/N_: Garland is so pathetic sometimes. I mean... in my head. Uh... Yeah. BEGA for **feather-duster**, as ever. 


	56. the territory

_The Territory_

Kai had scars he couldn't remember receiving. He assumed they had to do with beginning as a beyblader—everyone else had them too. Little slashes on fingers and hands and forearms that shined in the correct lighting. Criss-crossing nicks that meant before you could catch a blade, it had to hit you a few times. Before you could dodge a blade zooming towards your head, it had to trim your hair.

Some scars weren't that old, though: scars from new special attacks, practiced against shattering things that tore up fingers or hands or forearms—dangerous attacks that sent blades ricocheting at unexpected angles, taking some skin along. Everyone had scars like that too.

Then there were scars opponents caused. Rei had slice-marks outlining his body: the sides of his torso, legs, arms—like a terrible wind had tried to rip him apart. Tyson had thick bear-claw-scars on his chest. Kai had vertical sliver-scars over his eyes… Most attacks didn't scar skin, though. They bruised. They scarred internally. Invisibly.

The Blitzkrieg Boys were riddled with invisible scars.

Scars just came with the territory. Though some had more than others.

Brooklyn, for example, didn't have a single scar.

But Kai figured he was different.


	57. figuratively speaking

_Figuratively Speaking_

They could've been in denial, maybe, 'cause they'd figured, against all odds, against all evidence, that upon entering the room Tala did _not _have a look on his face that said coolly, self-righteously: "Toldja so.""

And of course Garland did _not _have a look on his face that loftily replied: "You can't make me feel bad about putting you in a coma; it was an improvement, you long-winded jackass."

"Taken any candy from strangers lately, Gar? Followed any puppies into vans..? Posed on the playground for—"

"What's it like peeing through a tube, Tal?"

"As far as making a comparison you'll understand, _Gar_… almost as uncomfortable as getting caught in Boris' office with your pants around your an—"

And they could've remained in denial, chatting tensely amongst themselves, gripping their glasses tightly, 'cause they seemed not to hear when the conversation of stares, back and forth stares, escalated to the blunt sounds of fists hammering flesh and the splintery cracking noises of fists hammering bones and—

And they seemed not to worry when the conversation of stares ended in the eerie silence of death, with Tala and Garland looking away from each other's talkative eyes at the floor.


	58. 23rds figurative

_2/3rds Figurative_

They weren't in denial, though, when they saw Tala sitting straight as a bean-pole in his chair, arms and legs defensively crossed and chin predatively tucked, wearing a face that hissed up at Garland, "I have nothing to say to you."

And they weren't in denial about Garland wearing a slow, honest-eyed face that respectfully replied, "I'll do all the talking, then," as he lowered himself cautiously into the seat across from Tala, bracing as though ready for the Russian to kick his chair out from under him.

Tala followed his movements with eyes that said, patiently, "Fuck _you_, Garland."

To which Garland responded with a wary tightening of the lips and gentle tightening of the voice in eyes that silently, wearily muttered, "I wanted to let you know... that we probably see eye to eye now…" Garland's gaze flashed up to meet Tala's, carefully, carefully… "We probably have something in common now."

Tala's face said, surprised—too surprised… fake-surprised… sarcastically, "You want to start this relationship over, Gar? 'Cause we got off on the wrong foot?"

And Tala took one look at Garland's solemn face that said nothing, and burst out laughing with eyes that screamed, "…FUCK _YOU_, GARLAND!"

* * *

_A/N_: Spell-check says "predatively" isn't a word... But it sure SHOULD be... 


	59. shuffle

_Shuffle_

It could have been about desperation, when Tyson slid breathlessly into the dojo, his eyes wide and Kai's MP3 player tight in one of his shaking fists.

It could have been about desperation, when they retreated to Tyson's room and tried sound-proofing the door with laundry, and then huddled around the bed with Kai's MP3 player between them.

It could have been about their desperation to know Kai, when they plugged the MP3 player into Tyson's speakers and shuffled through the music, choosing songs at random, listening intently.

But they were baffled, when cello became folk, and then bluegrass, and then reggae, and then fado, screamo, Mozart, enka, trance, and then a Gregorian chant. Metal. Opera. Gangster rap. Salsa. Turkish ballads. Garage bands followed by Vaudeville performances…

"Are you sure that's _Kai's_..?" Rei asked disbelievingly over a wailing, a capella female voice.

Tyson just collapsed back onto his bed, groaning affirmation.

"Is it possible to like _everything_..?" Max mused, pressing the skip button—reaching a soothing Hebrew lullaby and tilting his head in confusion.

"Maybe he just doesn't like _anything _very much," Hilary suggested, sounding sullen.

It could have been about desperation, when Tyson threw a pillow at her face.


	60. define 'normal'

_Define 'Normal'_

Sometimes Moses looked at his team like they were crazy. Sometimes he thought that he was the only _normal _one.

"Are you kidding?" Mystel spluttered over his shoulder, scaring the living daylights out of a Moses halfway through his daily-morning-mirror-front-mantra of 'you are the normal one, you are the normal—'

Moses wheeled on him, eyes flashing towards the nearest escape route. "Sure—no! I mean… no, I'm not kidding… I'm—"

"The normal one..?" Mystel suggested helpfully.

"You are?" Ming-Ming asked, sneering amusement under Moses' right elbow.

Moses jumped away from both of them, verging on either tears or hyperventilation.

"I thought_ I_ was the normal one…" Ming-Ming whined at Mystel, who replied, 'me too' in sign language—conceivably because he'd forgotten that it wasn't Ming-Ming who knew sign language, it was Moses, and he'd been trying to keep the conversation a secret from… Moses… but it was Ming-Ming who—and—Moses knew—um…

They ignored Moses pressed against the closed door, who in turn ignored Garland on the other side of the door, who pounded on the door and yelled, 'What's going on?!"

To which Brooklyn responded, "Moses is normal."

To which Garland stopped pounding and laughed, "…_Really_..?"

* * *

A/N: BEGA for **feather-duster**, who's just THAT inspiring. 


	61. one man saves the world story

_One Man Saves the World Story_

They were thinking about it when their smiles tightened at the corners, and their eyes sparked with fire that wasn't all loving. But they did their best, for Tyson's sake—for everyone's sake, maybe, in retrospect—to stomp those subversive flames out of their hearts and only fuel the ever-burning fire of love.

But whether more afire with love than hate, the shared glances of cold knowledge remained.

Usually it happened when the paparazzi called him by his favorite nickname, "The Champ"… rubbing at them… starting to expose raw nerves to the love-heated air. And it stung, when Tyson felt entitled and felt like he was so fucking great.

They could confront him about it, and he'd cry to get his way, and feel all entitled—and maybe eventually he'd learn something… but those lessons were always short lived. When they hissed and pointed at the engravings on his tournament nameplates, saying, "NOT ALONE!"—Tyson would nod, but not remember for long.

So, "Not alone…" they could only whisper—whimper—amongst themselves, when he was "The Champ". The one and only.

Bladebreakers, Max, Daichi be damned.

All others be damned. All other World Champions engraved on his trophies be damned.


	62. copycats

_Copycats_

Their silences were unfriendly and tense in a time when Rei had perfected serene silence. In a time when Rei spread the serene, padding ethereally quiet through the dojo.

Hiro and Rei stared at each other sometimes, trying to give the impression of looking through, seeing _through_, seeing something icky and shameworthy and wrong in one another's _soul_.

Sometimes they didn't look at each other at all. Their eyes didn't meet for days. Their paths deliberately diverged; separate routes to reach the same places, separate times to do the same things. Sometimes they wanted so much to avoid one another that they'd climb through _windows_ to get to _bed_.

That usually happened when they looked at each other's souls, and sent one another the message "ew" and the message hit home. When Rei felt like a sham and everyone knew it and he wanted really badly to break the serene and apologize hardcore. When Hiro felt like an asshole and everyone knew it and he wanted really badly to apologize to Rei.

Because they_ hoped_ they had different bitbeasts, despite the names, so they'd _have_ different souls, and they looked through, determined to hate, and saw themselves and recoiled. Ew.


	63. phoenix must burn

_phoenix must burn_

Tala was part of Kai's "most hostile environment" because he could be counted on for certain important things:

Tala would withhold sympathy, empathy—for fun. He'd smirk, cruelly delighted, at Kai-in-need. He'd never tolerate Kai's behavior just because he imagined hidden emotions and sensitivity.

He'd smile when Kai tried to take advantage, and laugh when Kai punched him in frustration, so desperate to take advantage, and Tala would hit back.

Tala could be counted on to kick people when they were down. To put boot-prints all over teary eyes and quivering lips. Tala could be counted on to resent the secrets he couldn't wring out of Kai, and to make his life a living hell, and laugh when it wore him down. The hell.

He'd never be someone that Kai could rely upon or lean on.

Tala could be counted on to act… _nothing _like them. They, who made Kai weak with their tolerance and the trust he could put in them.

Tala was_ central_ to Kai's Most Hostile Environment—the one person who would beat him into shape. The one person who didn't love him.

And it all made perfect sense in Kai's head, and he was grateful underneath.

* * *

_a/n:_ Next one is a follow-up on this. 


	64. skeleton keys

_skeleton keys _

Tala didn't tolerate locked doors. He yelled about them. Smashed them down. Took out all the locks and left them open always. Greased the hinges so they swung both ways, energetically, smacked into the walls, smacked into your face…

Tala had this thing about going where he wanted, when he wanted. This thing about being locked in. And locked out.

Tala had this thing about privacy, as in, he didn't give any. He had a habit of rummaging through people's shit if he thought they were withholding.

Tala had this thing about information, as in, he needed all of it. And he felt entitled to it. And he couldn't handle secrets because they made him scared for his life late at night. And he'd sit up in bed, on top of the sheets always, fully dressed because that was how he slept, in case of emergency, and he'd work himself into a blind rage which really didn't take long.

And next time you walked through a door he'd be on the other side, and he'd smash it into your face, and he'd ask what the fuck you were holding back. What the fuck you were trying to do. Kill him?


	65. premeditated

_Premeditated_

They'd never really hurt anyone. They weren't nefarious people. They didn't have hurtful intentions.

Not that Salima would feel _terrible _if they hurt anyone. Her gunmetal-gray eyes would widen a little in cool confusion, and she'd say with measured innocence, "It was never our intention… _my _intention…"

There had to be casualties when she used how she did. Used other's feelings—not necessarily against them, but _for _her. For her team. It was a skill she knew how to use, and _did._

She manipulated people. And got what Kane wanted.

Usually no one knew the difference—usually _no one_ saw that their empathy, their social skill of choice, could be _used… _

But oh, _how_ it could be used._ For_ them, not necessarily against others. But sometimes, unavoidably, against others.

It was a price Salima willingly paid. So she called, told Rei they'd be in the area, asked to stay with him… Walk around town with him. Inadvertently run into paparazzi with him. Get some attention for the Psykicks, for Kane, through him.

A skill. Like keeping their emotions out of the way, or holding a genuine face.

Rei didn't know the difference. He was happy to help.

People usually were.


	66. 1001 things

_1001 Things_

It was all Zeo could do. Sit in front of the TV with a notebook and a pen, watching Tyson fight a beybattle he would win. Watching Tyson for flaws, for the slightest something he _couldn't do_.

The slightest something Zeo could maybe do better.

If inspired, he'd write it down: for example, Tyson couldn't tap into vast reservoirs of strength lent by mechanical innards. But that was kind of cheap because if Zeo used it in battle he'd be cheating, and if he used it outside of battle he'd scare the crap out of people.

Uh…For Example, Tyson couldn't tame a _rock_ bit beast like Cerberus. …But that was little consolation when you weren't even human and stuff.

…Example: Tyson couldn't play the violin. Small comfort when Zeo's mom had crashed the car while he was playing violin in the back seat, making it kind of the soundtrack for his life's various disasters.

So far, that was all Zeo had written down. But Tyson had once said, yelled, more like, that there were, no doubt, _1001 _things Zeo could do better than he _ever_ could. And because Tyson had said they were there to find, Zeo looked. ...Zeo hoped.


	67. aspirin dazed

_Aspirin-Dazed_

You're_ always_ in pain. You just can't feel it anymore.

That's what Ian had said when he walked in on Kai trying to stop Spencer's head from bleeding all over the floor, and Kai had said Hurry up and get some painkillers, they're in the kitchen cupboard, and Ian didn't move. He just said it slowly, deliberately, like he believed every word, watching Spencer's head cracked open bleeding, You're always in pain. You just can't feel it anymore.

Spencer's bleeding head where he'd cracked it on the railing after Bryan tripped him down the stairs and his soft moaning made Ian all philosophical about things. Maybe in shock. But he just stood there half in, half out the door and didn't lend a hand. Kai said, Then hurry fucking up and apply pressure, come ON, and dragged Ian by the wrist at Spencer and ran for the kitchen.

But Ian just looked vaguely down at the blood, tilted his head, watched Bryan and Tala staring down from the landing. They all looked like they believed the words. Even Spencer, who sat dazedly up, forgetting to apply pressure because Why? They were always in pain. They just couldn't feel it anymore.


	68. adversity is creativity

_adversity is creativity_

Bryan wasn't giving up the knives.

After pounding, demanding, and swearing, three hours swearing, he slid half a plastic butter knife under the door. But that couldn't cut anything, and someone had brought home a sack of stale bagels and everybody wanted them. When the toaster burned the ragged edges of a hand-torn bagel for the fifth time and the fire alarm went off for the tenth, things turned ugly.

Things turned righteously indignant.

It seemed distinctly unfair that Bryan get to keep all the knives. Steak, bread, and otherwise. He hadn't _bought_ them. He only kept them sharp. Kept them beside his bed. Kept them lovingly within sight at all times lest they _go _anywhere, leaving him undefended and incapable of drawing blood except with his teeth.

Then they quieted and remembered about the teeth. How once they'd taken back all the knives, every single knife while he slept, eaten their bagels, and Bryan had woken up and become a slavering hell-hound and almost ripped a chunk out Spencer's restraining arm with his _teeth_.

…They disabled the fire alarm and sat around the toaster and made a game of who could tear their bagels most neatly in two.

* * *

_a/n:_ I'm still bitter about writing scholarship essays, knowing they wanted a human interest story, knowing I didn't have one to give. Hence the title. I'll stick with other people's adversity, I think. 


	69. digging for gold

_digging for gold_

Gideon didn't seem like such a bad guy.

Eccentric, granted… a bit creepy—he was wearing a purple tux and a pink cravat and lacy white gloves, for God's sake—but really very kind. Very good to them. Kane never went so far as to gush his gratification, occupied with the creepiness, but he was on the verge, sometimes, of debilitating_ love_ when he saw Salima being spoiled rotten.

When he saw Salima stepping beautifully down white marble stairs, Gideon gently taking her hand at their foot, bowing over it, kissing it like royalty. Radiating adoration.

She was blushing proudly, clothed in a yellow silk dress that wasn't half as gaudy as one would expect, with _Gideon_, for God's sake, having paid for it. Gideon just smiled so gently, with such keen interest and deep happiness for Salima, for Kane, for the kids he loved so very, very much. As much as anybody's ever loved anybody.

Kane gushed behind a glass of champagne, watching the creepy-eccentric-love in his sponsor's eyes, thinking of all the thankful things he'd say at Gideon's eulogy when the billionaire finally bit it and left them a vast fortune to spoil Salima with forever and ever.


	70. misunderstanding psychology

_misunderstanding psychology_

Rei inadvertently stomped on Tyson's abandonment issues, and Tyson felt like revenge. It was a main characteristic of their relationship: neither of them wanted to be left by the other first, so they'd slowly part emotionally and then suddenly part physically, scared, self-defensive, perpetuating their cycle of dangerously unstable friendship.

Tyson liked to forget that Rei existed, and wouldn't _notice _him, _anywhere_—for weeks. He very effectively undermined their emotional connection, their friendship, and the silence made Rei paranoid. All 'cause Rei'd gotten a letter from the 'Hills again.

Tyson, keyed up, kept note that Rei _was_ around, however, checkin' his mail, backin' him up, because upon noticing that Rei WASN'T around… backing him up… Tyson flipped fricking out. Raved about cryptic, unreadable Chinese letters. Hilary cited abandonment issues and everyone glared at Hiro.

Rei heard about Tyson's hysteria by mail, and looked suspiciously around at the 'Tigers and decided they didn't love him quite as much as Tyson had to, to be freaking out so much… so he came back home and was Tyson's best friend for a couple of glorious days.

Until Rei got mail and Tyson started forgetting.

And it NEVER stopped. And they were friends forever.


	71. way to be

_Way to Be_

They wouldn't have liked being crazy.

It meant you cared only about stupid stuff. Thought, only, of stupid stuff. It meant you drifted around in your own brain, feet carrying you in random directions. It meant you went nowhere. And you went there very slowly. It meant you slept forever or not at all. Said weird things. Heard things people couldn't hear.

But sometimes being crazy meant you could stop mid-step, and stretch your arms up to the sky.

Or throw yourself suddenly onto the ground to feel the roots growing in time with your heart beating. And be able to feel the pulse of the world, in time and against and beside your own. And be loved, by everything natural and simple and trustworthy. Always. Never be alone.

So crazy with a brain-full of the chaos of the universe, that the world recognizes and reciprocates and speaks to you straight through concrete. And it says, "I love you", and "I'm here".

They stood there in the middle of the busy sidewalk, surrounding Brooklyn face-down on the asphalt, and envied his steady breathing in time with all, supported by all, pretending they wouldn't have liked being crazy, wishing they were.

* * *

_a/n:_ BEGA for **feather-duster**. 


	72. flutter

_flutter_

Brooklyn had never been to a natural science museum, and he never would be again.

That was all Garland could think, grimacing, as Brooklyn pressed his entire front, forehead to toes, fingers splayed, against the glass of a large display case full of stuffed finches. Trying to get through to them. Trying to feel vibrations of life. Brooklyn moved suddenly, trying to catch that same flash of light a second time, that flash that looked like the slightest flip of a wing. Brooklyn did it again.

Garland shivered, trying to decide what to do. And then Brooklyn turned around and his face said the world was in shambles. This meant Armageddon.

Garland couldn't tell if it was a statement or promise.

Brooklyn watched the dead-bird-wings from the corner of his eyes, tilting his head so the light shifted, slowly. But they still weren't alive. He touched the glass like they could feel it. Softly, at first. Then he started banging on the display case, palms, then fists, because he knew how people did this, but he didn't know how people could DO this!

Garland held him, but Zeus began to spark, and it was more promise than statement after all.

* * *

_a/n:_ For **feather-duster**, derived from life. I hope this means I'm back. 


	73. allergy

_Allergy_

It smelt like Lavender, which meant Robert was home.

"Gross," Johnny muttered, wrinkling his face as he strode past countless suits of armor and countless switches all over the floor and walls that he knew to avoid. Walking through Robert's house, you had to skip a step now and then. Had to trip on nothing to avoid decapitation.

_Fucking lavender_, Johnny thought, slamming open the big study doors, face like a raisin as the smell got strongest, billowing around Robert's desk, a cloud of putrefying flora. Billowing around Robert and Oliver and Enrique, around all the Barthez kids.

_Fuck_, Johnny thought, bracing against the tangible steam from seven cups of aromatic tea. "God, gross!"

Johnny thought he could have prevented it, if he'd noticed the smell earlier. Noticed when it turned from one cup to two, two to three. Before the four Barthez kids had been sucked into this orgy of stupid.

They peered at him. Sipping. Sipping. Exhaling into the steam. Blowing it into his face.

"Are you _okay_?" Miguel asked mildly, maybe worried.

"Don't mind him," Robert answered, as Johnny opened his mouth (and then quickly shut it around a nauseating mouthful of lavender), "Culture makes him prune."


	74. electric sleep

_electric sleep_

One upside to being fake and manufactured? In those days you were still one-of-a-kind. Still a scientific impossibility. And when the doctor said, hey, it's okay—lots of people go through this. You're not alone. Want a support group? Want other people who know your story, know what's going on and how you feel? Want drugs?

And when the doctor hesitated over his prescription pad, remembering, uh oh, uh oh… You could feel so gratified because that's right. Special. Oh so fucking special. Only. _Unique_. And you could feel so relieved, even when you were sobbing and the doctor was staring, trying to backtrack. And you could feel so glad, in some mechanical-manufactured part of your heart.

Because this grief was yours. This pain was yours only.

Alone. A scientific impossibility. And no one could take it away from you. No one could understand you and belittle you and force you into a statistic. No one could _know_ you or—it was yours. Untakable. For the first time in your life something that couldn't be taken. Since you weren't alone and _human_—you'd gained at least ONE thing: you became perfect-snowflake-special.

There's something to be said for not being real.


	75. solace

_Solace_

Kai kept a place to sleep, because he couldn't do that very well at the dojo.

It was hidden by the docks, and had a working lock. And didn't have Bladebreakers, mostly.

It had a hard couch two inches too short, a table you'd hit your shins on if you weren't careful, a display case for trophies Kai didn't care about and old models of Dranzer he didn't use. A tiny bathroom with a mirror on the wall that Kai didn't necessarily have to look at, and when he did, was too small to get much information from. Too small to form an opinion from. Sometimes it let him save face.

He liked bare walls, so that's what most of the walls were. On one, granted, he had a picture of the former Bladebreakers (that's where they came in), but he didn't necessarily have to look at that either. In fact, he had to make an effort to crane his neck that way, sitting on the couch with a notebook full of blade schematics. He had to really want to see them, in order to see them.

That was how Kai liked things.

And sometimes it let him save face.


	76. nowhere kids

_nowhere kids_

You learned a few things about life, sleeping and blading on the streets of Hong Kong. On the streets of NYC. On the streets of Russia or Bey City.

You learned about rules. And you learned to violate them creatively—because if you subscribed, you were a wuss. And if people thought you were a coward, you were fucked.

You learned about preemptive strikes. And you learned not to feel bad… because if you _didn't _strike first, you were fucked.

You learned about gambling. And you learned not to pay anyone back, because if you _did_, you starved. Or you had a shitty blade, and you were fucked.

You learned about image. How the cold bastard with the loud music, trash talk, and skills to back it up got immediate respect. And without immediate respect, you were fucked.

You learned to be tough, you learned to be alone, you learned to fight tooth and nail for survival, whether the cameras were on and off. You learned that real courage is waking up in an alley in winter with nothing to your name. But still climbing to your feet anyhow.

And you never forgot. Because if you did, you were fucked.


	77. provoke

_provoke_

When Tyson quit blading, Kai came home.

They all agreed it was his most fucked up stunt ever. Who thought of pulling something like that? Who thought of getting an old rogue team captain to finally visit by threatening his very reason-for-being? Threatening the crap out of it? Who had balls that big? Who was that—impertinent? _Honestly_.

No one had even for a second believed him.

Especially because when Kai strode into the kitchen, eyes like fire, words like brimstone, Tyson grinned. Ear to ear, he grinned, when for days on his face there'd only been a scowl no matter what anybody said, no matter what anybody did. Even when Max had kissed him full on the mouth and drew back and said, "What the hell, man? We're _worried_ about you—"

Just a swipe at his lips with the back of his hand, just a scowl.

But he grinned now. Even when Kai punched him in the face and knocked him down, and stood over him with his eyes like fire and words like brimstone. Even when Kai clearly didn't find it funny.

Just a swipe at his jaw with the back of his hand, just a grin.


	78. priceless

_priceless_

Third time that week.

Miguel sat on the floor, sunk a little into the plush carpeting, getting his cut hand bandaged by Aaron. Matilda hovered worriedly over his shoulder. Leaned a little over his shoulder to inspect the damage. "Oh, _Miguel_…"

He smiled faintly and lifted a cup of tea to his lips, grip shaking a little. Face a little pale. "S'okay. I guess I'll have to be faster next time, right? Heh…" His eyes a little worried.

"There shouldn't _be _a next time," Claude hissed from where he stood looking out the floor-length window, watching Johnny and Enrique play tennis in the western courtyard.

Matilda and Aaron nodded vigorously. Miguel sipped his tea.

What could they do, really? Robert had gone to so much trouble. Letting them stay at the castle. Letting them eat his food and use his practice dishes. _Training_ them… They had a lot to thank the Majestics for. Home. An opportunity to change for the better.

No. Miguel shook his head once, movement shaking tea all over his hand. Matilda startled. Aaron grabbed the teacup. But Miguel was looking at Claude when he said, fiercely, "It's worth it."

A few booby traps were worth it.


	79. consolation prize

_consolation prize_

It became a tradition of Hilary's: whenever Tyson was an asshole, she threw a barbeque.

They met on the banks of the canal in the evenings of the days after Tyson did something particularly nasty. Like when Tyson told Rei he'd never need him. Or when he told Max to get out of his way, and stay out. Or when he told Kenny to mind his own damn business. Or that time he quit blading just to get Kai home, and instead got a black-eye and bruised ribs, and only momentarily had Kai under their roof to show for it. That time Ozuma tried to pound in the door and Tyson refused to deal with it; just set the dead-bolt.

That time he'd told Hilary she was a stupid fan-girl, and why should Mr. D waste a plane ticket on _her_? Or when he locked Daichi out of the house at night and the kid walked in the cold to the outer suburbs of the city, and crawled into bed with Max and cried.

Times like that. When they couldn't trust Tyson, so they trusted each other. And what they did was pretend, for a while, that he didn't exist.


	80. there's us

_There's Us_

It was about knowing and not knowing. It was about predictability.

For example, Tala could predict Kai's disdain when he lost. And Kai could predict Tala's rage, when he sensed the disdain. Tala could predict Kai taking a retaliatory swing at him, when he punched him in the mouth for sneering. And though Kai could have predicted Tala's pride making him do violent things…

He fought back.

That was something Tala knew would happen, when he took that swing.

But it was really about _not _knowing. What they _couldn't _predict. And how they looked at the smiles on the faces of others and couldn't predict what happened next. It was about how after Tyson's fight with Brooklyn, Tyson greeted Tala with a hug, and Tala had looked at Kai and Kai had frowned. He couldn't have predicted that. He _could _predict how Tala's shoulders tensed.

Tala could have predicted Kai's confusion.

And they kept their eyes on one another's, and in them they hid from the chaos of everything. Wrapped in Tyson's arms, not knowing what came next, they found some comfort, predictability, in one another's confusion. Found comfort in one other person to whom nothing but pain made sense.


	81. supernatural disaster

_Supernatural Disaster_

The Siebalt house fell quietest when Brooklyn was at his worst.

Purple static muffled their voices into nothing. Pressing just enough so they'd know it was there, but not yet enough to hurt. Like somebody you want to trust, but can't—caressing your neck.

They'd have tried to leave, but static sprang from the doorknobs, biting—just enough to surprise, so they'd know it was there, but not yet enough to hurt. Same, they found, with the windowpanes and cellar steps.

Under house-arrest and voiceless, but it wasn't so bad. Could have been worse. They'd stare at the walls. Or sometimes Kylie used it as an excuse to get everybody in the same room for a family meal. Mostly they paced. Because after five minutes settled down with a good book or particularly interesting wall, static prodded them up. Static didn't let them rest.

Only Brooklyn was amused. And he'd laugh and fill the silence, because they were incapable of leaving him forever.

Then he'd shock them to sleep, just hard enough so they'd forget, but not yet hard enough to hurt. And he'd laugh and let them make noise, and let the world pretend he wasn't calling the shots.

* * *

_a/n_: BEGA for **feather-duster**. The purple static is Brooklyn's, but really hers. 


	82. welcome!

_Welcome!_

The kitchen shelves looked like they'd fallen on hard times and then developed an alcohol habit.

They stood there kind of appalled, while Spencer stood behind them failing to look nonchalant and unapologetic. Looking uptight and embarrassed. Regretting the bottle of Grey Goose that had fallen and rolled into a corner, and the clear, strong-smelling vodka now pooled across the floor. Saturating the ant trap. Spencer colored briefly, but when they turned to look at him, he was pale again. At length, he met their eyes. "…What?"

They were slack-jawed. 'What?', '…_What_?!' "What have you guys been _eating_?"

Spencer watched Daichi messing with the Grey Goose bottle, a moment, before Hilary pulled him away.

At length, he met their eyes. "I don't know what the others do. I eat out. Or I order in." But Tala didn't like when they did that. He was scared of being traced by their credit card numbers. They didn't ask who he was afraid would trace them. He'd have said the government, but to Tala, Boris was the government.

Even now.

So they really didn't. Order in. Sometimes they didn't eat out, either. Sometimes they didn't eat.

They were slack-jawed. Hilary burst into tears.


	83. not applicable

_not applicable_

Though Garland tried not to apply religion (or even philosophy) to Brooklyn very often, for the sake of sanity, over time the sentiment became inescapable. If you had learned it, you had to recognize it: one does not exist without its opposite. Love does not exist without hate. Joy does not exist without grief. To be a loser you have to have known victory.

And though he'd seen Brooklyn basking in victory, horrified in defeat, crying and laughing, smiling and snarling… there was a muted quality to—all of it. Brooklyn walked a middle ground, sometimes reaching a hand out to touch upon polar emotions, but never supplanting his feet. Never throwing himself whole-heartedly into experiencing anything.

For better or worse, Brooklyn had never expressed true love, or, even when demolishing the city, he'd never expressed true hate. Brooklyn was too complicated for such simple emotions. But it made Garland want to kill a puppy, or find a newborn baby and tuck it into his arms.

At least if Brooklyn touched upon the primordial well of hate or love—either one would do—Garland could trust his face when he frowned or smiled. Garland could trust something was getting through.

* * *

a/n: YOU GUYS READY for the ultra super cool **feather-duster**'s BEGAriffic birthday edition of '_Delusion_?! ...CAUSE I SURE AM. Enjoy enjoy enjoy. 


	84. free air

_free air_

It was simpler to be around Brooklyn.

Certainly more than being around Tyson, who clung possessively to his elbow—asking him what their future weekends together held, whether he could come along on those fictitious expeditions, whether he'd heard from _dad_ recently. Asking him for memories of mom. Asking him whether Kai's and Rei's warnings about him were true after all.

Jesus Christ, Hiro usually wanted to say. Stop making me feel guilty.

Guilty about everything. About weekends together that wouldn't happen, because he was too often here instead. Guilty about inventing expeditions, so that he could be here instead. Guilty about not having talked to dad in two years. Guilty about having forgotten most of mom's face. Guilty about having given his little brother's friends such terrible first impressions. Guilty about not _caring_ about any of that—when he was here instead.

Jesus Christ, Hiro wanted to sigh, when he found Brooklyn sitting on a pond-bank and stood close behind him. When Brooklyn leaned back against his legs, and there were no questions. No clinging.

There was no guilt.

With Brooklyn there were simply good days or bad days. And with Brooklyn, Hiro could_ pretend_ life was so simple.


	85. probabilities

_Probabilities _

Ming-Ming lay down next to him in the shade, and said that love was necessary.

He slowly looked over, and her face was unfamiliar-solemn. So he didn't know what to do, and looked away with a noncommittal, "Uh." Hoping she wouldn't continue. But she continued, sighing that love was definitely necessary—singing songs about how much it hurt everybody, how much it healed them afterwards… seeing _him _and how he'd changed… had taught her that love was 100 percent necessary.

There was no breathing without it.

She bent and unbent her legs like on a swing, but on her stomach; he let the movement occupy his maybe-mortified attention. But she was telling him, now, that all this time she'd been singing about it and groveling for it and posing for the cameras, searching for it, but she supposed she hadn't once 100 percent felt it. 98, 99 percent. Then she looked at him. And he didn't know what to do.

But Brooklyn supposed he could keep her breathing. So he beamed, "Well..." and then, "I 100 percent love you." And he looked straight ahead, under her stare, so she wouldn't be able to easily judge the accuracy of those percentages.


	86. symbio

_symbio_

Garland knew they were a team because one picked up where another left off.

Like Garland left off being useful around holidays, and that was where Ming-Ming picked up. And Ming-Ming left off being smart around physics, and that was where Hiro picked up. And Hiro left off being understanding when practice began, and that was where Moses picked up. And Moses left off being reasonable when it came to money, and that was where Brooklyn picked up. And Brooklyn left off being sane right around losing, and that was where Mystel seemed _most_ sane.

Like Mystel left off being cute in cases of injury to himself or his friends, and that was where Ming-Ming picked up, in an effort to downplay the pain. And Ming-Ming left off being dramatic right around when disaster struck, and that was where Brooklyn picked up, usually with devastating results. And Brooklyn left off being perfect when Kai entered the room, and that was where Hiro's silver tongue seemed flawless. And Hiro left off being articulate right around Brooklyn's future, and that was where Garland was at his most talkative…

…

So now they had only to get such amazing teamwork into the Beystadium.


	87. faux pas

_faux pas_

They'd been walking in a Venetian square when Moses commented on the irreverence of birds. He'd pointed out the million and five pigeons grappling for purchase on an ornamental pillar. The million and five pigeons resting on every inch of every artistic surface available. Pooing on priceless Turkish mosaics and statues of the patron winged lion. Pooing on screaming tourists. Trying to land in their hair.

Moses shrugged that it made him think birds had absolutely no regard for beauty.

He'd said it pleasantly enough; a rumble in his chest. Nevertheless Brooklyn stopped walking, and they looked back at him, stalk still under the beating sun, against a backdrop of a million and five flapping wings and grappling claws. Un sun-visored, unsweating, unsmiling. Looking at Moses as though he'd just said something mean about his mother.

Brooklyn's face said, 'My mother is a SAINT.'

Moses sweated numbly. They all did. Until Brooklyn gestured at the million and five people, stomping and stumbling over cobblestones centuries older than they, worth centuries more respect, sun-visored, sweating, stupidly smiling and colliding, taking pictures of one another screaming when pigeons landed on their seed-clutching fingers.

Brooklyn asked, his face twisted, "The irreverence of _who_..?"


	88. shining knights

_shining knights_

Moses had to get good, because nobody else was. And that night he'd come home from work to find Monica having tucked herself in bed, reading a story aloud—had broken his heart. He'd insisted, even though she very kindly observed that he looked dead in the water and had to get up early, remember? He'd shrugged and sat on the floor alongside her bed, with a spare teddy bear in hand, looked at the opposite wall.

A little girl's dresser. Filled with poorly matched clothing in overwhelming shades of pink. Less poorly matched these days, since Ming-Ming had a credit card. But that wasn't immediately important—what was important, was he had to make something up. Five minutes of expectant silence, and Monica had mercifully handed him a storybook.

He'd become determined.

They exhausted her supply of books after a week. But by then Moses was well versed in the architecture of the modern fairytale. So he declined suggestions he sleep, declined the storybooks, and began a story he'd thought up that day during his lunch break…

Monica had fallen asleep, lulled by her big brother's voice, a smile on her face.

And Moses had never been more proud.


	89. soundingout idols

_sounding-out idols_

People believe in mysteries. They think even though the maps are filled in, something has been overlooked. They believe in loch ness, or the Jersey Devil. They believe in God, and emotions, and DNA. They believe in the how, and that there must be a why though they don't know what it is. They believe in ghosts, and other things no one understands.

At least for years, he added. At least until they're dead and in a position to find out.

But then even that's only conjecture. Because you see, he said, waving in the vague direction of the stars, All the mysteries are out there. And deep in the ocean. And in caves. All the mysteries now are below sea level or above plane-level. Nobody's seen dragons in for—

Except in the Beystadium, Hiro said, trying to joke, trying to argue.

Brooklyn froze, considering, looking skyward with eyes that sparked in the fall moonlight. He exhaled white in the cold air. Then that's another mystery solved, he said, almost mournfully. Reverent as he traced Cassiopeia. God has been found. He's in my beyblade.

But Hiro had his own mystery to believe in.

He stopped to listen, when Brooklyn laughed.


	90. LoJack

_LoJack_

You could tell where Mystel slept because of how his hair smelled.

Tropical flowers, or subtly vanilla, or like mint, or like nothing, he'd been at the Siebalt's. He'd been using Kylie's, or Garland's, or Jamie's, or Brooklyn's shampoos. And his hair came out of the midst of their products looking particularly controlled.

Like nondescript drugstore soap or strawberry children's detangling shampoo, he'd been with Moses and Monica. And his hair came out looking either coarse or fluffy. And often in a multitude of braids tied with pink pom-pom rubber bands.

If Mystel's hair smelled like a berry smoothie, and was an extra-shiny version of usual, he'd been at Ming-Ming's. Like oranges, and normal-looking, he'd been with his parents. Like spice—any kind of spice—, wind-blown and sweaty and dusted with dirt, he'd been with the White Tigers.

When he was with all of them, he smelled like all of them. They joked half-irately that he conducted experiments in the bath, mixing their travel-sized shampoos into something smelling like a Grecian food and flower bazaar marinade. But Mystel knew what that smelled like, and disagreed, and joked how it was a favor to Garland. So Garland could keep up.


	91. Samson

_Samson_

Half the country was in love with Rei's hair, and they were no exception. But it was different for them… They understood, like the fans, that in the stadium Rei's hair meant his defeat. They understood that his hair loosened meant he was at his most vulnerable.

Rei's hair meant he needed protection.

But they understood that when Rei lay there in the dust, or staggered from the stage, it was _different_ than when he left the shower with a towel around his waist, ringing dry his tresses. They understood that Rei rarely trusted. People. To see him vulnerable. See him weak or naked. And as such in no time he wrapped his hair away, and that was the norm. They understood that for Rei, being under tight control was the norm.

So inevitably they loved him when his hair was loose. Even more so when he caught them looking, and offered a quizzical smile. Golden eyes all calm assurance—yes, I trust you.

And when his wrap split open in the stadium, and the crowd cheered, they gave one another quizzical smiles. Knew half the country would have killed to see Rei trusting them just out of the shower.


	92. threnody

_Threnody _

You can't blame Zeus for everything.

Garland grimaced the thought, when he ran across a favorite family picture cracked upon the floor, picked it up, like he had the day before, looking closely into the tiny faces of his brothers and sisters now fractured by spider-lines of broken glass. Picked it up and gazed fondly, like he had yesterday, when evidently Brooklyn had seen him do it.

This had happened before, and you couldn't blame Zeus for everything. Zeus was really just an enabler, Garland dully reasoned, on his knees picking bits of glass off the linoleum. Startling as another crash resonated from the floor above. That one had sounded like a chandelier. Hn. Garland looked at his bleeding finger, and sat back on his heels, extracting a stray sliver of glass. Really, there was no point in startling anymore.

It wouldn't hurt so much if it wasn't so unexpected.

But for a few minutes he couldn't bring himself to investigate the noise, and sat there on his heels looking down at the broken family picture—startling when droplets of blood further marred the cheerful faces.

Garland looked at his finger, supposing these were deeper wounds than he'd first thought.

* * *

_a/n:_ If you're not **feather-duster**, go now and read and love her stuff. If you are **feather-duster**, happy birthday. I love your stuff. 


	93. escape goat

_(e)scape-goat_

Though everybody was taught the same lessons, not everybody learned the same things.

Some of them learned not to be afraid. Others learned to hide their fear, and then vomit it down the sink every night. Some of them learned to be angry instead, and posture and posture. Others learned that one man only deserved fear, and nobody else. Not even God. And they tended to do the best.

They tended to sneer, and laugh, and look at the world—everyone who was not _him_—with a kind of pity. In the worst possible sense. The kind of pity that is scorn and begs for violence rather than love. They learned to hate everything for weakness. Even God. And they weren't afraid of anyone, except him.

And they showed fear only to him, and they showed it only in the way their bodies went rigid upon touching, the way their movements became sharp like scissors upon hearing, in the way their teeth clenched down upon tasting. And they showed it to no one else, not even God. And to the rest of the universe they were fearless. And that was what he wanted.

And that was what helped Tala survive.

* * *

_a/n_: Yeah, these are terrifically late. And I'm so sorry! I've been offline a while because of family and school nonsense, but things are okay now. I hope nobody's died of waiting. I really can't apologize enough! Tell me what I can do to make it up? 


	94. seasonal depression

_seasonal depression_

The trees looked like blood gushing from broken arteries, paused mid-splash in the air.

Brooklyn got sad sometimes in the fall because of things like that. When the world was cracked open, bleeding and dying, or interchangeably it was on fire and crackling, and the leaves they stepped on crumbled into ash. And as much as Garland talked about sleep, and hibernation, and how in a couple months life would go on and as much as Hiro talked about volcanoes and _their _ash—Brooklyn couldn't stop just being sad.

He knew about months, and he knew that half the planet slept while the other half awoke. It was just _being _on the drowsy half, as it weakened and yawned and its knees gave out under the intense exhaustion. It was just being there for the end of another era of daylight.

Standing in the nighttime of half the world. With choruses of fleeing geese in your brain. And you just got the feeling this was something to run from. Sleep was to be avoided.

And as much as he tried explaining to Garland, at 3:30 in the morning, it was kind of hopeless. And things like that made Brooklyn sad.

* * *

_a/n:_ BEGA for **feather-duster**, who has earned every word by virtue of cool. 


	95. payback

_payback_

Kai sat there paying reparations for the trail of pain he'd left behind. That meant smiling—it was so deeply wanted it was deserved—when they set a cake down in front of him and Tyson had these wide eyes, and he said to Kai, "You'll make a wish, right?"

And Kai had to sit there. And he had to strain that smile, and being there smiling at that moment was the hardest thing he'd ever done.

He looked down because it was too tiring, and the frosting formed this Suzaku, surrounded by candles melting down, fast, dripping wax, faster. Kai felt like melting too. Becoming a solid pool of wax with the wick of his soul and skeleton charred black, floating, half-encased. He felt like Tyson would have scratched a corner free. Set it alight. Melted what was left, again and again.

He felt like Tyson would dip his fingers in, coat each in a shell. He'd play that game. His friends were everywhere, and they were all looking with these wide eyes, and they wanted so deeply, and they deserved.

And Kai couldn't keep it up, he couldn't hold the smile. But he nodded. He had to nod.

* * *

_a/n:_ Goes with the next. 


	96. the price

_the price_

Later they stopped staring, and Kai felt a little less like a burning candle, and Tyson was watching TV with Max and Hilary and Daichi and Kenny, and he felt safe enough, _inexplicably_ safe enough in retrospect, to say idly at Rei's shoulders wrapping the cake in tinfoil, "I could break your face."

He paused along with Rei. Studying the shoulders, imagining the calloused fingers in their inactivity, expecting the worst in that Rei would understand what he meant. Because, after all, it was usually safer when they didn't understand. Much. It put them off balance and it was so much easier to hurt them, and when he was hurting them they weren't hurting him, but unfortunately Rei nodded, because he understood, and that hurt Kai.

"You know? I could do a lot of things to you for making me feel this way."

Rei knew. He put the cake, splattered liberally with melted and solidified candle wax, in the fridge and turned. And he understood how Kai didn't specifically mean HIM so much as all of them, so much as the entire world, and he understood why Kai couldn't look at him. After all, they _both_ knew it was undeserved.


	97. attack dog

_attack-dog_

Rick wasn't like Lee. Lee listened to Rei, and Rei was blinded by proximity, so Lee's hands were tied. But Rick didn't listen to Max; he had a greater authority, without vested interests in the well-being of Kai. His authority only had vested interests in the well-being of Max, and it directed him towards that goal. And really it wasn't difficult to conclude that Kai threatened this end.

He was always hurting them. Particularly Tyson, who then took it out on his friends. And this hurt Rei, of course, and Lee didn't like it but his hands were tied. And that was a factor, of course, but more importantly Tyson's outbursts hurt Max. And it wasn't Tyson's fault—he'd always feel so sorry—easily it was Kai, who never felt sorry, who was the CORE ISSUE.

And Rick told him so, slamming him against the wall. And it was in Rick's eyes, "Don't think I won't do anything. I'm not Lee." And Rick had to hurt him; he answered to a higher authority than Tyson, pulling at his hands choking Kai. He answered to an authority higher even than Max.

And that authority had concluded that Kai was the problem.


	98. poison

_poison_

Tala harbored no delusions that they were alike. At least by much. And he resented and hated Kai for the differences, for Kai's five years to his fifteen, for Kai's big house to his cramped cell, for Kai's blankets in the winter to his tingling red fingers because _fuck _it got cold in the Abbey at night. Tala hated Kai for the comfort he'd imagined the boy felt, at least sometimes, maybe not more by much, but he was damn near positive… sometimes. Kai felt fine.

Feeling fine—what a pipe dream. Maybe you had to escape before age 10. Maybe that was the cut off for relative normality. For knowing how not to lie and how to take people's hands when they offered them (Tala imagined Kai knew these things).

Tala also resented and hated Kai for the similarities people saw, when there was next to _nothing_—And Tala looked at him with such hate. Because he had ten years of suffering on that kid. And he didn't hurt or suffer half as much. And Kai didn't even remember his five stupid years. And Kai thought he did, everyone thought he did, but Kai didn't have a fucking clue.


	99. smoke signals

_smoke signals_

It wasn't that Kai hadn't been communicating, it was just that Kai was sending up white smoke that you could only sometimes see for the clouds.

Tyson understood in a fit of inspiration, and spent 24 hours in tune with Kai. Like when they'd battled, when they were in their PLACE and he could swear that he'd known what Kai thought. And felt. And wanted.

It was a melancholy feeling because he always forgot… what Kai had been thinking. A memory now vague and dream-like, but he was sure he'd have recognized it if he felt it again. Kai's thoughts alongside his. For instance these 24 hours felt familiar, but better than he could have remembered, better than he could have _hoped _for.

In the end he knew he'd forget—for some reason he was sure of that. But he tried to be happy, he tried to make Kai happy… an easier task when you really _knew_ what he was thinking. And feeling. And wanting. It was so much easier—and so much worse when around noon Tyson realized that he _didn't_ know. And so would never be able to deliver. He'd misread.

And then he was glad to forget.


	100. casualties

_casualties_

"You have to understand… Kai's life is _built_ on double standards," Rei said softly by Garland's side. Standing with him and watching Tyson try to explain his injuries to Gramps, watching Hiro quietly talk Brooklyn off a cliff. Watching Mariah pissed with a story about muggers and how Kai wouldn't let her take care of her_self ever_, where did he get _off_ playing the hero anyway—he'd overreacted, you know. They were just cowards. He'd beaten the living snot out of them and now LOOK at Brooklyn, good lord.

Mariah with a story about where Kai's anger management issues were going to land him someday.

Rei stood by Garland, saying softly, "He doesn't hold himself to the same standards. He doesn't have the same expectations for himself." They watched everyone not talking about how Kai had swooped in on the mugging and seen Brooklyn and almost attacked the wrong person—the wrong target. But only _barely_ righted himself. Only_ just_ connected his fists with the right faces. Maybe meaning something in getting close and splattering blood on Brooklyn's white clothes.

"He doesn't see things like—"

"I don't fucking care," Garland softly said… And just then, neither did Rei. Care.

* * *

_a/n:_ Lucky Drabble 100? Hey, coolio. Over a hundred Beyblade ideas, 200 words each. I should celebrate or something. Then again, I have been celebrating this entire update! Copious amounts of Kai! Can you tell? That's how I celebrate. Kai, Rei, Tala, the 'breakers, angst... these are a few of my favorite things.

As for poor Rei, you can't be so understanding ALL the time.


	101. desperation

_desperation_

Mariah really wished Rei would stop being such a gentleman.

Really she wasn't as drunk as he thought, and she was the hottest thing present except that little blowtorch Oliver had been using to light the crème brulee. She'd made sure of it; she'd planned meticulously. There was by GOD no competition in this room. And she'd had only a couple of glasses, really, he'd be at absolutely no fault if he decided to take advantage. _Really._

"I mean it, Rei, _really_. I'm not drunk!"

"Sure you're not. Most of the other sober girls I saw were _wearing_ their shoes."

"Rei, have you ever _worn_ high heels..? Don't answer that. You'd make a more beautiful lady than me and I'd want to _die_." She'd planned so carefully! She'd made cohorts, conspirators of the other girls! And by GOD did he KNOW how hard it was to convince Julia not to be as hot as she was fully capable of _being_?

She leaned further across the table and smiled reassuringly, which made the room spin. "Would you stop with the shoes, really, I mean they're already off, you might as well undress me completely. _Honestly_, Rei, now you're just being ridiculous."


	102. how to fight loneliness

_how to fight loneliness_

Tyson once awoke in the middle of the night, bathed in cold sweat, rolled over and said to Rei, "Don't ever leave me again." And though Rei knew it was because of that nightmare he had sometimes—oftentimes, the one where everybody Tyson loved spontaneously mummified and EXPLODED into white dust that drifted through his grasping desperate fingers and away—and though Rei knew he'd be lying if he said okay, because it had to be a lie… Rei still opened his golden eyes, as alert as if they'd never closed, and stared straight into Tyson's fear. And let sympathy grip his heart. And nodded, yes alright. I'll never.

It had to be a lie, of course. But it was one they'd all told, for Tyson's sake. Because of Tyson's profound fear, and pathetic, pathetic hope. Afraid they'd say no, because in his introspective moments he knew he'd given them reasons to leave. Kept giving them reasons. Pathetic because he was so sorry, so genuinely heartbroken that he may have broken their hearts sometimes. Hope because he had a feeling they loved him, and he loved them, and all he needed to sleep was that barest assurance.

That slightest nod.

* * *

_a/n:_ And I love Tyson too. That poor wretched boy. He makes everyone so miserable and in the end needs them, and at the end of the day loves them, so fucking much. He's so very important. 


	103. training ground

_training ground_

Kai was an asshole, knew not what he did, and wouldn't have stopped if he knew. But Tala didn't have the time, he had other priorities, and he'd just have to take it. It was alright; he was something of an expert in standing there and taking it. Waiting until he'd be free to push Kai back. Push Kai right over a cliff.

He looked forward to it. Because Kai treated him as though good enough to scorn him, when it was a secret from Kai, and if Kai had known he might have stopped but Tala had enough pride and enough common sense not to tell. Kai couldn't be trusted.

But Kai didn't ask, even if the interest Bryan showed the Barthez Battalion when they crossed paths tipped him off.

Because if Tala didn't trust him to stop let alone help, then Tala had to take it. If Tala was going alone he'd have to be strong. Couldn't whine, couldn't let Kai know. Only hope their common hatred, apart from Kai because Kai was different—only hope hate would sustain. Because if they couldn't withstand Kai, they'd never withstand Boris.

And Kai knew he couldn't be trusted to help.


	104. selective amnesia

_selective amnesia_

What was there before the Abbey?

People asked, looking like they wanted to solve all his problems, and then were so relieved they didn't have to. Behind fear there was a pinpoint of thankfulness, when he chewed them out, because what were they trying to do? What were they thinking? They thought they could fix something that had been broken? Find something that had been lost?

A pinpoint of 'thank God', when Tala snapped that he could take care of himself, so butt out. He was fine. More importantly he wasn't a book to rewrite as they saw fit. He wasn't some accessory to boost their self-esteem, prettily complementing _them_. He wasn't dinner table conversation. He would not suffer self-congratulation.

Tala didn't want to be rewritten. Tala wanted to believe what comforted him, the idea that for better or worse he didn't _have_ a past. Of course he knew the streets, and cold, and of course before that there were soft female arms and loving male words. Of course it had all fallen to shit. But he wasn't looking for pity. Not even self-pity.

So what was there before the Abbey, when they asked and he remembered? Nothing. Forcefully, _nothing_.


	105. de profundis

_de profundis_

"Brooklyn, you know,"—why, these days, when Brooklyn turned his face to him, did Hiro feel like a child? One with a stutter, mental and verbal, the kind of child he'd never ever _been_—"about nature, and, civilization, and how they're not… necessarily opposed—…"

Brooklyn smiled politely. Waited for Hiro to find the words he had lost and do something interesting with them. Undoubtedly something _profound_ because Hiro wouldn't have walked over and stood by his head and looked down that intensely unless he had a point because he, same as everybody, was afraid of a bored Brooklyn.

Not that _any_thing Hiro told him was _very_ interesting, because of course Brooklyn _knew already_, but it was just _when_ Hiro came up with things, like right now under a black sky with stars that Brooklyn couldn't see around the sparkler exploding in his hand like a universe, like he was God and there was power in entertaining that thought, out here, where Hiro couldn't get at it. And the grass under Brooklyn's back was cool and wet and Hiro should have gone back to the campfire. Roasted summore marshmallows.

Brooklyn took interest in when Hiro saw his eyes and realized.

* * *

a/n: The title probably doesn't make sense. BEGA and everything else including the fibers of my racing heart for **feather-duster**! At least Brooke didn't just maul him this time, huh?


	106. memorable

_memorable_

Obscurity didn't serve you in the Abbey.

You learned that because there were too many kids and none sucked, you fell by the wayside on small margins of mediocrity. Went back _out_side, when the longer you stayed the more unbearable the idea. When the longer, you greater the need to stay and be worth staying.

But if your eyes were blue and cold, you might have worth. If you were willing and tolerant and tore a kid's ear the first night. If you disregarded human limitations. If you slept at night and cried little.

Your self-worth was gained and lost inside those walls. You forgot how to live without a bed and food and purpose. Forgot how to live without someone saying how. Never forgot Boris watching, waiting to be impressed.

But if you could be shocking with your hair, and attacks, and defiance, and how quickly you learned and improved upon the lessons, how flashy you could be, which few others bothered doing, too distracted by pain.

If you weren't distracted, and were beautiful, and were brutal, Boris might remember you and let you stay. And so long as Boris' eyes turned to you… you felt a little safe.

* * *

_a/n:_ Tala is showboat. This I have learned.


	107. mythology of us

_Mythology of Us_

Tyson liked to pretend in the meantime that there was another Kai, and soon they'd get to hang out for more than seconds at a time. Soon he'd stumble across this Kai napping in bushes, and this Kai would smile easier, and he'd be there when Tyson woke up and went to bed and all the time in between.

This Kai would be quiet but he would be listening, and he would answer. He would have interested eyes. He would get angry on Tyson's behalf more than because of him. He wouldn't feel the need to disappear. He would stay on the team he was supposed to. He would stay no matter what. He would say what Tyson needed but nicely. He wouldn't get into those fights. He'd watch movies and eat pizza. He'd lead.

Tyson had proof of this Kai, in momentary glances and faint smirks and a body reclining at his side maybe relaxed. Eyes almost gentle in a solar system, on a beach only they knew. He liked to pretend, with this Kai in mind to talk to when the dojo was silent, blue-lit by rain. Pretend in the meantime that it mattered: a hand holding back.


	108. terms of love

_terms of love_

Robert didn't say 'I love you'.

He hadn't easily since adolescence, when suddenly and inexplicably a gulf up opened between himself and others, especially other children, and gaped ever wider until it seemed only vampires and butlers could bridge it when they stepped across many piles of books. And then after his parents' deaths Robert ceased saying it altogether. It wasn't because of fear; perhaps he'd just decided not to use affection lightly anymore. Save the words for when he meant them.

It became a habit, not thinking in terms of love.

And now staring into the expectant-gentle face of Oliver when Oliver was extremely sick in bed and very pale and very weak and they'd sincerely worried, with Johnny and Enrique's looks askance from Oliver's sides, wondering, also expectant in their own snotty-daring-threatening way, with Miguel and his team filling the door, but turning back when Robert was too silent. About to ditch, staring a second with disappointment and demand…

They wanted something Robert didn't feel prepared to give.

That phrase, I love you, and he couldn't judge anymore whether— And if he didn't mean it, what if Oliver heard that in his voice? Like mom and dad did?

* * *

_a/n:_ Goes with the next!


	109. close enough

_close enough_

Worse, what if he meant those words—I love you—and they heard it in his voice? Then he'd be bound. They'd hold him and so would his sense of honor. He'd have to worry too much about Oliver, who was very sick and who watched Robert's blurred face with pleading that Robert couldn't bear to acknowledge. Oliver breathed with difficulty, even through his nose when he shut his mouth to salvage dignity but just got louder.

And if Robert had loved him, that would have been hard to see.

Robert heard Miguel and his team stomp away, heard Oliver's unsaid question that was more in his wet blue eyes, "What about Robert?" and recoiled against the wall. What _about _Robert?

In the pause when their eyes left him, two sets scornful, one set crying, because Enrique nuzzled his face against Oliver's IV-stabbed, taped wrist, and Oliver slowly reached over and stroked Enrique's hair with the opposite hand, and Johnny watched them with rage like he'd maul this sickness… Just then Robert muttered, "Because, I, would be lonely without, you. So, don't leave okay?"

And they looked up, and they were kinder eyes. And Oliver cried harder and said, "'Okay."


	110. misconcept

_Misconcept_

The fans were wrong. In interviews, Kai was a surprisingly boring individual.

He couldn't draw. He didn't write poetry. Instead of books he read schedules, maps, and tournament brackets. He didn't need glasses. Back in school he did his homework, took tests, and was sometimes present. If you asked why, he'd shrug. He didn't flunk and Voltaire didn't "fix" it. Voltaire didn't scare him. He had a dark but decent past. He wasn't actually suicidal.

Kai wasn't passionate about music. He didn't prepare food with anything more sophisticated than a microwave. He didn't dance. He didn't sing. He wasn't good at things. He couldn't drink more liquor than usual. He didn't watch TV or go to the arcade. He didn't have fun. He wasn't a practiced lover. He didn't have secret or public crushes or love-affairs.

In terms of secrets Kai did have, Kai secretly wanted to destroy everything that functioned, egos and beyblades and relationships and people, and it wasn't a secret to anyone. But he wasn't afraid he'd succeed, so he didn't cry himself to sleep. So Kai didn't look like an angel with his eyes closed. But somehow fans still paid the magazine price to find out.


	111. humanization

_Humanization_

At least these days Bryan gave some warning.

Tala tried to make the doctors understand that it was amazing, but they wouldn't dwell on it.

They reminded him that the more gradual Bryan's mood swings the better for everyone. They told him that Bryan needed to even out the jump from 0 to 1000 in a quarter of a second. Make it more like a jump from 2 to 3, in a full second. Should at least be 2, they said; they wanted a heightened minimum. How Bryan grit his teeth and clenched his fists? Good signs. How his eyebrows knit and eyes flashed? The vocalization? All excellent progress but there was much more needed.

They said it was good, how now he warned, but not an observation to rest on. They said they were running out of time in which to see some serious improvement. And _hey_, both sides of the table wanted the same thing right? But Tala was angry being told that since Bryan was more responsive, now they had to make him less _responsive_. Had to lower that maximum.

'Cause, sure, son, it was wonderful, the swearing. But so late in the game, not nearly enough.

* * *

_a/n:_ God, I give poor Tala waaaay too much to deal with.


	112. and vice versa

_and vice versa_

Hiro leaned back and gazed upon the pile of computer monitors and TV screens flashing different videos from different places, different times, united by the common presence of Brooklyn. Brooklyn fighting Kai, Brooklyn fighting Tyson; Hiro hardly looked at those three, he had every frame memorized. They played in his dreams.

Brooklyn fighting Garland, newer, smiles on both their faces but this angle only involved Brooklyn's smile. Sometimes his non-smiles. The subtleties of Brooklyn's face.

Hiro was always there to watch in person, but he liked retreating to his room where he wasn't expected to behave himself, with his pile of electronics (ninjas did technology these days) and the videos that he'd pay for. Watching without sound. Surrounded. Sometimes he got like this and had to play his favorites all at once.

Had to half-close his eyes because he might be lulled asleep, surrounded by Brooklyn, more comfortable than he ever felt. Had a bad enough day to turn on the volume, watching through Mimi's camcorder Brooklyn drag himself from a lake, up onto a dock, saying, "Hi." Watched himself step into frame. Step over. Whisper into Brooklyn's ear.

Watched Hiro, whispering, "I can be the genius to your insanity."

* * *

_a/n:_ Creeper. Thanks so much for causing this, **feather-duster**!


	113. thank god it's fatal

_thank god it's fatal_

Spencer came to the Abbey at seven, washed in from the street during a week of heavy rain. Clearly he'd been alone for a long time. He stood close to the ten others. They in turn made him their human shield. He seemed not to mind. His face was unremarkable; his stare didn't rove; he didn't make much of an impression.

He was very simply tall. He very simply waited.

The other ten waited behind him. He seemed, in his careless moments, to take pride in that. When the teachers noticed, they took the others away. Kept Spencer moving between the wings, unable to settle. They taught him he ought only to obey teachers, because children would hide behind him but not care about him.

They said they'd find him someone who cared. Spencer, in his preoccupied moments, had shown them belonging was important to him. They figured it was loyalty best carefully directed.

Eventually they found Tala, who made an immediate impression, to teachers, that he'd use Spencer. But also gave the impression, when he took Spencer, and told the teachers they ought not move him again, because he was on Tala's team now, that he cared.

Win-win, really.

* * *

_a/n:_ The earliest fear human beings have is one of abandonment. The title is from the song "heretics" by Andrew Bird, which reminds me of Spencer and Tala for mysterious reasons.


	114. don't blink

_don't blink_

You couldn't say there wasn't something perverse there. After his third dream about Tala wearing fishnets and a tiered skirt, holding castanets threateningly to his throat in place of launcher and beyblade, saying his own words back to him in low tones, telling him not, at any costs, to blink, Boris decided he should probably get some distance.

It was about time anyhow he see Tala handle things without his bracing presence in the background. He couldn't be leaning all the time. Boris predicted the first couple of days would be difficult. Tala might take some crap from the other trainees until he managed to become threatening without the director looming three feet away.

He hoped Tala hadn't learned to use him as a crutch to the point that he'd crippled himself… But never mind, you couldn't shy from pain. There was always going to be pain. Boris couldn't think of a better way to help than to get him used to it. Nevertheless he hoped the boys wouldn't rearrange Tala's face badly.

Preliminary reports and a business trip later, the dreams ebbed. Boris returned to find Tala unbruised.

Unbruised. Almost _too_ alright.

Boris felt strangely unimportant. The dreams changed.

* * *

_a/n_: Hey, **feather-duster**, at least Boris has it right with the fishnets this time. Jeesas.


	115. complications

_complications_

The times that Hilary loved Tyson most did not coincide with the times that Tyson loved Hilary most. She wasn't sure what those times were, when Tyson loved her most, but she assumed they happened and would continue to happen in the future.

She assumed the times Tyson loved her most were not the times she wedged herself between him and overzealous fans, and shouldered him away, back to the group. She assumed they weren't the times she harped on his eating habits or stupidity, or micromanaged. She assumed, though she wasn't positive, they weren't the times she played mother hen and made him lunch. She knew that he didn't love her food.

She KNEW Tyson didn't love her when she criticized how he treated his friends. He really hated that. Particularly if she brought up Kai, and… She just wanted him to be fair and mature, was that so hard?

Maybe she was barking up the wrong Kinomiya.

She just really loved him at the most unfortunate times, like when he was red-faced yelling about Kai. And you had to admit, for all his faults, at least Tyson was always sincere.

More than could be said for some Kinomiyas.


	116. tactics

_tactics_

Ian spent 80 percent of his time bored.

In the Abbey, when he was the smallest person in the entire building and before the teachers decided it ought to stop, this resulted in sojourns through the air vents. That, alongside the ease with which Ian channeled depraved thought-processes, resulted in Ian knowing more about how the Abbey was run than the average guard, the average scientist, even the average teacher. In the end, he knew almost as much as Boris.

Certainly more than Boris gave him credit for. It later resulted in, sure, indispensible testimonies for ill-fated court cases, but more often police 'discoveries' based on the tips of an 'anonymous' informant, who asked just that they leave the Demolition Boys very much alone. Forever.

They did. Because with what Ian knew, he could make the lives of certain politicians difficult. With what Ian knew and didn't tell, he had the upper hand on approximately everyone. After all in the Abbey, when you were the smallest person in the building, you really had to take your advantages where they came. You had to make yourself seem somehow larger.

After all. If you weren't going to escape, you had to play.

* * *

_a/n_: Silent-snide deadly Ian is my favorite goblin. Particularly with his lamination machine.


	117. almost scientific

_almost scientific_

"What d'you think his chances are?" Enrique asked, leaning close to be heard over the loud techno and conversation.

Oliver made a thoughtful noise and looked in the direction of the dance floor, at poor Miguel babbling something, trying to make himself interesting to Matilda next to the almost painfully attractive Julia swaying not three feet away. "I think it was cruel of me to send him over there," Oliver sighed.

"Nehh, he was moping. If he's going to be jealous he might as well be proactive about it," Enrique said, rolling his eyes. "Though maybe I should go show him how it's done. I can distract Julia, that sexy beast. Though it's a damn shame—I wish he'd just leave them to it. They're _hot_."

Raul sidled up to the table, sweaty from dancing.

"Your sister is turning Matilda into a lesbian," Enrique told him.

"Oh… well, it's the Spanish magnetism; no one stands a chance."

"Ah,_ look_, now he's freezing up completely. Poor Miguel. Matty keeps glancing over there!"

"Julia is twice the man Miguel is! At this rate he'll never be as popular with the ladies. Let's bail him out, huh?"

"It's so _sad_, isn't it? Heehee."


	118. his lying match

_his lying match_

Tala confronted Salima that night after dinner. She was in the cloakroom, and had just been turning when Tala pushed her violently, stepped after, and shut the door behind them. Salima pawed the light switch, blushing-irate.

Tala said nothing, just stared, for so long, so sharply, that Salima asked, "_What_?" She checked herself, exhaling. Began again, "What can I do for you, Tala?" One hand on one hip. The other buried in her coat, resting on the bulge of her beyblade.

"I know what you were doing back there."

"Oh… What do you mean?"

Tala smiled and looked down his nose at her, curious-eyed. "Where'd you learn it? You can get whatever you want from people, can't you?"

Salima glanced at the door. "If you're talking about Rei, we're friends."

"It's nothing to do with friendship. It's your team, mostly you. You're the most manipulative person I've ever seen besides myself." Tala sneered. "What's worse, you didn't learn it from Boris."

"Oh-_kay_. Well, guess you found me out! Bye now!" She edged past.

Tala let her. Said softly to her back, "It won't work on _me_, Salima… You're stupid if you don't know that."

Salima picked up speed.

Started running.


	119. and stuff

_and stuff_

Garland thought he'd duck in and catch Mimi at the checkout; he wanted a water and she took too long, but then he didn't see her in line… Sighing, Garland wandered towards the makeup section. Hoping they could get out before being solicited for autographs. Once somebody whipped out a camera Ming Ming would want to stay all afterno—

Garland stopped short an aisle too early. Standing, gawking towards the end by the pharmacy counter where Mimi and Brooklyn looked with obvious concentration at the condom section.

Ming Ming bent down to examine one of the lower boxes.

Garland was struck simultaneously by a cold chill and the knowledge that Kylie should have been there, not him. He was the wrong Seibalt for this situation.

Brooklyn saw him and nudged Ming Ming, who had two different boxes of condoms and seemed to be comparing their merits. She looked up, following Brooklyn's gaze. Shut her mouth and smiled sweetly.

"I thought you were looking for lipgloss," Garland said.

"Yeah… 'and_ stuff_,'" Mimi reminded.

Brooklyn pointed at the right-hand box. "Those, I think."

"Ah? Okay!"

"Gar..?"

Garland turned on heel and went back outside, head bowed as though against a fierce wind.

* * *

_a/n:_ Inspired by a true story. Fwee hee hee! BEGA and lipgloss for **feather-duster**.


	120. built to last

_built to last_

They protected each other. Not because of love, or loyalty. Maybe it was all they knew how to do. Maybe maintaining the only environment in which they could still live. Maybe reassuring. Maybe holding onto something familiar.

Maybe more out of self-defense.

Tala argued with Strangers and put up a Well-Adjusted Front. As the spokesman he didn't have much of a choice. Thankfully he was born to lie. Raised to appear self-assured. Had the austerity to forbid their concern, and questions.

"Of course we're handling it," Tala seemed too often to say. Then he'd say, "Get out," and they'd go.

Ian made sure they had necessary documents, and many others besides. Like when he burned down the kitchen, and then promptly forged a bit of home-owner's insurance to cover it. He knew very well how to get out of Situations.

"I'll handle it," Ian said when Tala shut the door.

Spencer stood to the back, just in case. He'd stop anything. Hold the planet still, if it spun too fast for Tala. He'd carry the bodies, knocked out or otherwise, no problem.

"No problem," Spencer said as he walked past, trailing Ian.

Leaving Tala with Bryan, who helpfully didn't smile.

* * *

_a/n:_ Because of "we were never built to last" by Electric President playing on loop.


	121. subtle

_subtle_

Judy sat there wondering at the subtlest way to admit adultery. She smoothed her napkin and swished her wine. Straightened her cutlery.

She was always cheating. Married to her husband, cheated on him with her work. Married to her work, the All-Starz, cheated on them with her son. Every relationship somehow adulterous. Emotionally, ideologically. Her mind worked too fast and got bored too easily. Always in the middle of at least three projects. Bouncing many times between them throughout the day.

Mostly she hated being forced to explain. Whose business was it how she spent her time?

Rick plunked down in the seat across from her.

Judy wasted no time, saying, "I'm going to Japan. Taking over the main offices."

Rick stared at her.

"Stanley has asked me to become chairman."

"You're leaving?"

She nodded.

"…Are we coming?"

She shook her head. "The PPB is under new control, and the All-Starz are with the PPB. I can't say I haven't been planning this for a long time now, Rick." One of the three plans, at least.

He tilted his head. "I'll leave the 'Starz. I'll go wherever Max is." Essentially: I'll follow you.

Judy hated being forced to feel guilt.


	122. us and him

_us and him_

"Have you ever wanted to kill him?" Tala said.

He and Kai stood together, looking in the sunset-light across the park at Tyson and his cohorts, all sprawled across the grass or on the swingsets or beybattling on the dirt. Amiable and exhausted, physically, emotionally… both. Every one of the 'bladers who'd hung around for the last battle, plus the adults.

Sometimes they'd throw awed glances off in the direction, through the trees, of the fallen BEGA headquarters. Still not quite believing what had happened.

Tyson had found his hat. He lay on his back staring at the sky, smiling to himself. Glowing self-satisfaction, almost as though he could have gotten up if he'd wanted to. But he'd collapsed, too tired. He squinted against flying dust as Daichi's beyblade zoomed dangerously close to his head.

He didn't look ready to lose his good mood. Not even Hilary poking at his wound-dressings prompted protestation. He let her chat with Kenny and Dizzi over him. Listened to Rei and Max, sitting at his sides, chatting over the battle. Argued nothing. Too tired. Too proud of himself and them all.

Kai nodded, "Always." Then added, weary, "But not right now."

Tala smiled painfully.

* * *

_a/n_: "corner of your heart" by Ingrid Michaelson on loop. It's a TyKa song, what can I say.


	123. themes: max

_Themes:_ _Max_

A sunny disused bedroom, with boxes of metal parts for little hands that paw, find, and will make you something special if you ask and/or deserve it. Don't worry about deserving it. They're super forgiving hands, reliable with experience.

Trust coveralls. Snowsuits. The tire swing. Lots of family photos. Milk straight from the carton. Dad's lovely man-apron. Eskimo kisses goodnight. Nightcaps. Nightshirts. Socks sliding on linoleum. Late-night horror movies and caramel candies. Christmas cards on the mantel. Laughter and singing and always accents. Frequent petsitting.

Mom still says no, but dad says it's out of her jurisdiction. Doesn't defy her anyway.

Mom away, in a lab. Dad in the shop or kitchen. Doing fairly well for themselves, and him besides thankyouverymuch. One half of them hates them, but he isn't sure which, so he tells both halves "I love you!" Understandable habit, telling people about loving them: blames one half of himself. Unfair but true.

Also believes its better not to wonder, because a heart this humungous? Room for everybody comfortably! Okay, _un_true. Room for some more comfortably than others. But criteria? Psha. It's a super forgiving heart.

Trust biking along the canal, headphones on, synth overdrive. Genbu the conversationalist.


	124. themes: hiro

_Themes:_ _Hiro_

Failures to Appear. Failures to Appreciate what being blood-related meant. Standing in and around trees, incognito in the most conspicuous sense. Things clinging to his joints that he'd shake off possibly forever. Epic Failure at Appearing Nonchalant when asked who was he stalking today?

Nighttime vistas. Drives to the mansion where the one thing that mattered was inside, at breakneck speed, at a moment's notice. Fingers white on the steering wheel. Seatbelt all jumbled, cutting across a wild pulse.

Lots of waking up to a cellphone ring and answering like he'd never slept. Light sleeping.

Zoning out when driving. Zoning out when blading. Zoning out when teaching lessons, and stalking. Thinking about the one important thing even while _staring at_ the one important thing. Lots of pandering to his obsession. Tiny cameras stuck in potted plants. Always discovered.

Fireworks displays. Silent nighttime rides back home. Assurances: "Anytime…" As many small favors as possible. A harried daytime dojo face, best learned to avoid. Terribly mean things said if not. Always thwarted. Unable to think of large favors. Ringtones he customized, learning to avoid. Waking up _only_ for the concerto that he'd once seen produce a smile on the face that mattered.


	125. themes: johnny

_Themes:_ _Johnny_

Slate skies over damp earth. Stone streets. Sincere suspicion and frank answers. The promise/reassurance of anytime barfights. Temper-tantrums and high thresholds for pain, ultimately fearlessness. Hesitation on thresholds heading out. Ducked heads, private smirks. Crap had and given.

Life lessons relearned by kicks to the crotch, not diagrams. Jaded shrugging after child-like disbelief.

Picket lines for whatever.

The house built for recreational Vikings, with dogs sprawled on feet. Kids sprawled on hearths. Salamulyon fueling fireplaces. Things to trip over like upturned edges of heavy rugs, kid-limbs, dog-tails and slow-moving geese, sometimes mud-caked. Tromping. Loud voices swearing. Barking. No words had in edgewise but everyone trying.

Hardwood, velveteen, twenty degree temperature shifts between rooms. Doors traditionally ajar. An extreme lack of strangers. Relatives, even eight times removed, raucous at play. Veterans. Soothsayers. Legacy, honor, _pride_ definitely, up emanating from the crest hanging under high ceilings. Absolute liars though.

Haunted rooms, fogs, and creepy-ass paintings with trailing stares. Mounted elk with shocked glass gazes.

The extreme need to go ignored, flee to the treed-in castle with quiet corridors. Suits of armor, despite vampires, unhaunted. Here, words had in edgewise and only two tromping feet, and only one loud voice raucous at play.


	126. themes: rei

_Themes: Rei_

Uncertainty sometimes choking, always tickling. Byakko with high standards. Elders with fewer teeth and psychobabble, but higher standards. Leadership a gift, and curse, and sacrifice. Sacrificial feelings: aching to hide across the world among textbooks and dust.

More Deserving People, stifled complaints, smiles blotting out… versus Responsibilities. Graciousness and guilt upsetting scales already upset. Tough acts followed nonetheless. General failure. Somehow redemption. Jealousy over other people's mental breakdowns.

Nevertheless, the casual stride. Air cooled by morning rain. Deep breaths, steady. Inhale. Exhale. The jarring pressure of waterfalls, eyes shut, until you learn to_ smile_ under pressure. Deep breaths and blind learning. Bare feet and easy movement over sungold dirt. Invisible leashes only. Whipping hair, tanning skin, and warm rocks to collapse on.

Continued education among trees, among idolizing peers, against constant wind. Brush stroking love letters home, which is wherever isn't now.

Remember: aloneness and okayness at once. Dignity vomited by God onto kids on Hong Kong streets. Arrogant facades and predatory smirks still applicable. Past okayness and the closing of eyes still a reassurance versus that sacrificial whine.

Remember, eyes closed, breath easier: proficiency as teammate, in a dojo blue at night. Somewhere to hide. Someone to hide behind.


	127. themes: mystel

_Themes: Mystel_

Steep brown mountainsides and free falling. Silver brush with strong roots for leverage. Summersaults into olive trees and back flips out of lemon trees. Other things in other trees. Palm trees in particular. Citrus. Fascination with sugar gliders banging around their cages. Sea urchin stings in feet and beaches made of scalding pebbles, with pigeons for seagulls. Shade and napping. Sultry coastline goddesses, drinking cola, beads in their hair and plaster powdering their tans.

Harried circus performers. Harried construction workers. Urban playgrounds. Natural playgrounds. Jungle gyms made of bamboo, or taller people's limbs, or shelving units. Piggy back rides. One-eyed mama cats hissing and leering, resentfully reunited with a lost baby. Sand or rocks that give way beneath your feet unless you run like a lizard on water. Snowshoes minus the snowshoes. This really nifty kind of wind-vacuum if you spin just so, just so fast.

Spontaneous dance parties and pillow fights erupting in the streets. Volume knobs turned way up. Year-round Mardi Gras. Bazaar booth canopies as hammocks. Hidden treasures. Momentum. The clack of beaded necklaces and heavy jingle of metal striking metal. Entire earrings whipping off and braining passerby, when a ricochet angle gets a wee bit sharp.


	128. themes: bryan

_Themes: Bryan_

Locked doors. Or expected to be locked and then resented. Behind them teeth, and fingernails that_ threatened_, when he got almost close. But shackles all the time. Made of words or pills or sex or cute little tazers. Drug-laced dinners. Sedative smoothies. No eating, eventually knife-hoarding. Overarching confusion unless making mincemeat. Unless in or causing pain.

Overarching boredom, until something…_ everything_ got broken.

Meticulously stringed insect wings. Meticulous piles of steaming horseshit: everything he said lucid. Between wrecking stuff and needing to wreck more stuff. The melty-content before boredom, dread, confusion settling back heavy and uneven, impossible to tune out. Like unscripted screams, way back when. And sleep-sobbing.

That left too. Then just meticulous arrangements of fingernails, making letters to Jesus or Santa Clause or mom. Mom. Who the fuck?

Sometimes sleep. Mostly sitting, waiting, to be less confused or less bored. Grin grin, grin grin grin. Or bored _enough_. Except, annoyingly, shackles. Shining in pitch black like, "He _said_…" or not words. Bodies to hurt, bodies to do whatever. Bodies restraining. Pale skinny thing, half as strong, half as confused, twice as smart. Made his own smoothies.

Sometimes dreams. Always nice ones, though nobody else seemed to think so.


	129. themes: zeo

_Themes:_ _Zeo_

Constant fear of power failure. Electrical surges. Battery life. Should he eat batteries? Sometimes terrified of other electronics, in case they liked him, or _hated_ him. Water: would he rust? Not function at certain depths, like a watch? Most contact: mightn't he rupture and send wires flying everywhere— Fear of static cling. Like on birthday balloons.

Granted, for years when he was ignorant and comparatively blissful, nothing happened. But maybe now— should someone be installing updates? Was he plagued by spyware? Could they wipe out his memory and make him human for a while again..?

Fear of outside the house. Stayed inside, with the too-tidy old lady lifestyle, with the antiques. With religious devotion to photographs and videos and interview clippings of his friends. If he wiped his memory and became human, they could be friends, right? Standoffish Cerberus gave poor hugs.

Stuck to the violin out of spite, hoping daddy could hear it in his dreams. Played freakishly well too. Did for years, never knowing that he died that way. He and mom. Playing, just 'cause, at a flower market, when a truck ran up on the curb. Gramma said. He'd been dumbfounded, but then just got really mad.


	130. themes: salima

_Themes: Salima_

A series of graciously smiled-upon hotel rooms. A lust for experience from something snapped at thirteen, maybe an umbilical cord. Because then, ultimatums and agendas, clear as day in hearts.

Now snapped and running horrified.

Running exhilarated: plane tickets and aisle-sleep, jarred by feet. Knapsack of clothes bundled around a beyblade, a pillow. Money for emergencies only; calling home isn't. Nail polish chips, so don't bother. Clothes fray. Even clean, impressive, people smile back just out of greed.

No resentment; it's everyone.

Everywhere. Steam off tarmac. Once chicken feathers, but preferably hitching rides with produce. Lullabies by spinning wheels, or waves. Bumps, bit tongues, ditch-difficulties. Adventures. Neglected things. People and temples. The urge to pray a lot, what with the epic pretty.

Teammates as floating community. A leader even more snapped to follow, captain and God. Bajillionaire wrapped around his little finger, saying go on, enjoy it. I don't want anything in return. Liar, but worth voluntary orphanism: ideally world citizenship.

Rarely backwards momentum. Sometimes though, sincerity to nest in. Captain found this dojo. She found the side of this—white and gold and black… Some kinda tiger, probably extinct in the wild. Epic pretty, like the world, like home.


	131. themes: moses

_Themes:_ _Moses_

Suspiciously few hours in the day when a third job would have been helpful. Suspiciously little time to get from Job 1 to Monica's school. Little sisters left too long waiting. Concerned teachers. Impossible to ignore someone smelling like fries, having absorbed the vapors of the deep fat fryer. Nauseating. Thankful through hands rubbed raw that Job 2 involved washing dishes; got some of the stink off along with the layers of skin. Stared fiercely when told he'd have trouble beyblading with his hands like that. Beybladed anyway. Winced. Tried to learn something and come away from practice with more than popped blisters.

Stared narrowly when told he ought to prioritize; blading could be their big break. So what, in the meantime starve? Of course all the knicked fast food wasn't good for Monica, but. Fuck, she drew a picture. Concerned guidance counselors. Little sisters crying in defense of his honor. Big brothers crying in response to little sisters, but only in private; brave, proud faces for Child Services. Lots of character witnesses, thank God. CS was a load of crap anyway. Nobody cared about kids anymore; everyone was alone like this sometime; everyone in their generation had a story.


	132. themes: enrique

_Themes: Enrique_

Coy girl-laughter with high turnover. Sunwarmed bare skin and Mediterranean colors. Tossing sea under blinding-white boat. Clean public fountains for splashing at dusk. Heavens on ceilings. Churches: in use. Rosary beads and Mom's crucifix: not in use. Vatican halls emptied, perspectiveless old artwork next to perspectiveless modern artwork.

Perspectiveless sometimes. Smug most times. Easy all times.

Vicious Amphilyon aglow.

Manicured lawn, raked driveway, and too many wings and windows. More painted ceiling-scapes. Flowers unrecycled. Dark leather. The urge to run. Academic voices stubborn for pay (high turnover again). Grand escapes: unpursued. Grand schemes—wings impassable, windows broken—unpunished. Frequent renovations. Father's closed study.

Father's steady black eyes, and good intentions but Machiavellian means. Lessons half-heard about Machiavelli. Mom's sunglasses and doll-curls, habit of embracing strangers and vacuous conversations, pills and reclining poolside.

Casual communication breakdowns, also unpursued.

Casual contact unquestioned. Grand gestures unquestionable.

Whim-based international forays. Unexpected imports. Tasteful and untasteful burlesque. Laughable 'do not enter' signs. Broken-spined checkbooks. Drugs lacing other drugs. Booze, other booze. No fear (besides loneliness), no responsibilities _really_. Honor, surely. Dignity, even grace, certainly charm. Bad and good humor. The urge to run again.

Arms hooked under Parisian night-lights. French pastries at odd hours, always.


	133. the gathering fields

**The Gathering Fields**

Rat tat tat tat tat, ping—hail rapping on the fire escape. He could hear beneath it the cold clean sound of cars on rainy pavement, like ladies of breeding distantly tearing the finest silk. A breeze crept through the open, unshaded and unopposed window and over his nose, cooling the sheets, and he could feel it then too. A day made for sleeping in, because it wouldn't change an inch.

But Hiro opened his eyes to meet the low silver light anyway. He cautiously turned his head out of its warm pillow-imprint and cautiously smiled past the cat planted between them at Brooklyn, curled on his side away, facing the exit. During the night, somehow, Brooklyn had taken Hiro's hand and pulled it onto his hip. It still rested there beneath his own, smaller and paler, longer fingers with fewer calluses.

Hiro cautiously read a certain desperation in how those fingers had intertwined complexly with his own. With all his will, he refused to let them twitch. Because during the night, somehow, Brooklyn had come back to their apartment and come to bed instead of floor or fire escape and—not cocooned himself in sheets or kicked Hiro straight out. _Their_ apartment.

Hail pinged outside; Hiro felt in that room and his chest a bastion of warmth against it, and skipped every other inhalation, refusing to breathe the day for perspective. He listened to Brooklyn's breathing instead, and then cautiously leaned over; paused to study the rim of his ear festooned in russet locks, and with the barest touch of his free hand dragged a leaf loose from the tangled mess.

The cat uncoiled from his silky ball, stretched out his forepaws to touch Hiro's face, and yawned enormously. Brooklyn dragged the sheet closer.

* * *

_A/N_: Valentin's Dey drabbles dedicated to my 'andsome. Obviously I've foregone the word count for the sake of Cute. And may the fluff be with us forevermore.

If you want to feel what I did while writing this set, go to Pandora .com and make a radio station for Yiruma. What you hear might just break your heart, but then leave it all the better.

I think that's what love does.


	134. when the love falls

**When the Love Falls**

Since he'd been in a bad mood all day, she pushed him into the pool. And when he surfaced, spluttering, eyes wide and blinking as water sopped from his bangs, his face still held the hint of a blush from her hands on his chest! That was his problem (and his charm), she thought, watching his mouth move around a protest or—he just didn't know what to do.

"I'm… I don't know when this was last cleaned..!" he began, feebly. Elbow-deep in water that looked greenish in the wavering grotto non-light of the subterranean ocean beneath Griffolyon's tower. One long palm to long forehead. Water on his lowered eyelashes.

Her smirk melted into a grin, and then her respectful restraint into laughter, so much that she had to kneel on the tile, hands gripping the pool's-edge as though the world would fall out beneath them both and spiral away into euphoria. He grimaced self-consciously and began slogging in her direction, arms out over the surface of the water for balance, or maybe to keep them dry after they'd already been soaked. "No, no, no—haha, wait, stay there, I'm coming in too," she interrupted, rising up and dropping her nightgown in one graceful move.

He froze. Mouth falling open and face burning anew with predictable reverie.

"D-don't look so, panicked!" she chuckled behind her fingers, eyelashes wet with hilarity, her own face red.

Instead a violent shake of his head, and hoarse conviction: "You're beautiful!"

Kylie beamed and dived into his arms and he couldn't do anything but catch her, both falling back from the solid edge. Water going up their noses. Conspiring with their hearts thudding in their throats to kill them happy.

* * *

_A/N_: Remember that time we lost Robert's v-card in the pool filter? That was coo.

To the greatest creation known to fanon, no less (besides perhaps Johnny's Matriarch), Kylie Seibalt :3 I offer no explanation. But the above is right.


	135. love song to a ballerina

**I Found You, You Found Me (Love Song to a Ballerina)**

Usually they descended like the blue of a lightning-bolt. Women, before, cast his life into sinister relief, his rain-glistening castle walls forbidding in the sudden blue-white-black, the fir trees sharp to impale lesser gods, shadows appearing at twice their size, no longer softening, upsetting the horses before in an instant, disappearing.

But her light was instead a benevolent illumination.

And when she stood before the vaulted windows and watched the rain fall, nothing seemed sinister anymore, and what mattered was a thunder rumbling its satisfaction. Did it come from his chest? Storms no longer terrified. Somehow. He joined her, and lifted a finger to the fogged windowpane and etched a heart, then smiled at himself.

Because of her smile unlike anything, and brown eyes narrowed in slyness. A fascinating, delighted disbelief when she put her hand in his. The sheets of flaxen hair he remembered running through those fingers, tingling, every inch of him alert yet unafraid. Light to burn away the darkness and then leave sunspots on his gaze. To acknowledge his gargoyles like good luck charms.

For the first time his hands felt warmer than glass and not as fragile; the difference between blue and gold lightning, and the gold—healed him, it really did.

Robert etched a cloud into the window with his forehead. She chuckled, cheek to his shoulder. He regarded the soaked grounds, joyfully, because he was going to marry her.


	136. st honore

**St. Honoré**

"Enri, you are meant to fold boxes, not eat their contents," Oliver observed with his back turned to the offense, stooped over a sheet of parchment paper, piping miniscule white flowers onto petit fours.

Enrique hesitated, teeth poised around the third stolen pound cake delicately pinched between two of his fingers. "But I've breathed on it," Enrique said, voice smiling, lowering the confection. Glancing imperiously at the stack of unfolded golden card boxes. Softening his eyes when Oliver didn't reply because of the lower lip he typically worried when at work.

Oliver cursed at a curl that'd come free of his ear to bother at his cheek, while his hands, scarred by molten sugar and Unicolyon, steadily finalized the loop of an icing daisy. He blew at the green lock and heard his Italian accuse, "You filled it with _raspberry buttercream_, Oli." Heard Enri crossing the room to lean over him and peer at the meticulous concentration.

"What d'you expect, my man, your convictions and culture aren't mine. My talents are just women and 'blading, not painting, nor baking, nor restraint, nor—" He cut off, reaching across Oliver's vision to tuck the tickling curl away again. Catching Oliver's chin on the return trip. "Ciao. Pipe me a flower please."

"Bonjour. Not until you buy me a bouquet. And obviously I didn't give you something interesting enough to do?" Oliver said with heartbreaking apology. Which he was of course faking, his eyes narrowed at the petit four Enrique had felt fit to breathe on and now presented to him on the flat of his hand. "You're_ melting _that…"

Enrique grinned and raised his eyebrows; levered the cake closer and played at opening Oliver's mouth with a thumb. "When are you going to try one?"

Oliver put down his pastry bag, looking with earnest pleading up at his friend, and said, "For God's sake, Enri, eat it before it's ruined! I've tasted enough icing today; I'm quite fine,_ thank_you. Pff, anyway you left off your list of talents _running_." And Oliver whipped around to the knife block, seizing a pair of scissors while Enrique wheeled away in hilarious fright.

"Ahh, I knew it, I knew I'd die by your hand in the end," the blonde wailed from the opposite counter, his grinning mouth full of petit four. "I knew you'd do to me what you did to that old rooster. In the end, all these confections were only meant to fatten me up."

Oliver, wiping his scissors on his apron, looked up at Enrique sternly. "Enri, you in no way resemble coq-au-vin. Except with your pre-mortem crowing." He stuck his nose in the air, turned, and cut the tip off a second pastry bag. Behind him, Enrique smirked that the only thing in the world Oliver took seriously was the quality of his ingredients. And that the curl had come unsettled again, just as Oliver's hands were busy.

"Though to be honest, Enri," Oliver said softly when his Italian returned to help rake back his hair into a ponytail. "_Were_ I going to cannibalize you, circumstances would be such that you'd feel lucky to fold my boxes. And see daylight, you know. All that old rooster business.

You've even got years." He turned into Enrique's chest and smiled into Enrique's smile, opening his mouth and pointing expectantly at it.

Enrique was ready with another snatched petit four, and placed it gingerly between Oliver's teeth.


	137. and about being okay with it

**and about being okay with it**

Rei bent over Kai's finicky portable stove which sat upon the living room table, with his eyebrows knit in hopes that the batter wouldn't absorb this overwhelming gas smell. Rei exhaled the smell forcefully from his nose and adjusted the hesitant burner's temperature. He reached alongside the stove for the bag of bittersweet cacao chips, fished a couple into his mouth, and watched for the pancake to start bubbling within its heart-shaped mould.

The fluorescent ceiling light, vying with the stove for Most Disgruntled piece of machinery, flickered overhead. He could hear its electric hum, like the death rattles of flies caught under plastic. He tilted his head, eyes on the pancake, and listened to something chewing in the white-walls-with-their-corners-aged-brown. Rei might have mentioned it, but he recalled Kai's ugly smile at the concept of extermination. Rei really thought it was worth it?

This dump—? No not really. Rei flipped the pancake. It was universally understood that Kai rebelled against his Good Family Name and/or Human Excess by living in a converted storage closet for deprivation training or something. And no one argued with that. But it irked Rei a little, who with his experience of _having _to live in squalor, wouldn't have wished it on anyone.

Kai had a place where mice didn't scuttle between couch and cupboard. Home with _them_. But then—Rei looked at the unembellished trophy case, the extremely old and rather lonely looking team photo. "With them" was just the problem. And Rei better than anyone understood the imperative need sometimes, for the sake of liberty, to abandon even one's home. Not to say Rei considered Kai poetic anywhere except the beystadium (though he had a certain flare for the ironic), but he was like Thoreau, refusing to become a prisoner to Walden Pond.

He sighed and tilted his head in the direction of the door. Attention narrowed at the fire escape, since a car had screeched away and someone been yelling foreign profanities, and had he heard boots ringing metal? Hmmm. Kai was home. From wherever he'd been all night, seeing as it was 7am and Rei had broken in through the window fastened laughably with a rubber band, groceries in hand, at about 6. He moved the pancake to a plate piled with its brethren, and was just lifting the bowl of batter again when Kai unlocked and entered his two-and-a-quarter room "apartment".

Rei turned off the stove and put the batter back down, taking a second to assess Kai's shoulders, hands, and (unsurprised and apathetic) mood before saying in a tone of diplomatic suggestion, "I wish you'd eat breakfast at the dojo more."

"You aren't making breakfast at the dojo today," Kai answered, shrugging haltingly free from his trench coat, the punkish one that made Max and Tyson call him a vampiric Visual Kei star. 'The drummer', Rei had specified, meeting Kai's frown with bared teeth. Not even the bassist, Kai's eyes had seemed to say? Definitely the bassist, Kai's defiant hnph had asserted.

Rei laughed at him then. Now though he just looked up at Kai affectionately, pointed at the plate of whole wheat vegan chocolate chip pancakes, and leaned back onto the rough-brown couch with a handful of cacao. "Maybe I'd do it more if you came more."

Kai smirked weirdly as a result of having spent time among the perverted minds of the Blitzkrieg Boys, and took a second to examine his table's uncustomary spread of _ingredients_ that went into _cooking. _Little sacks of flour and baking soda and sugar, shakers of salt and cinnamon. A half spent jug of soymilk and canister of vegetable oil. The chocolate chips. The new smell of wheat and gasoline and warmth.

He'd insist all these things return to the dojo later, and Rei insist that they remain, since they weren't _from_ the dojo. They were a gift. From him. Like breakfast.

The pancakes were shaped like hearts, though sometimes a cacao chip had melted and re-hardened at the edges, giving them what appeared to be cancerous growths. For some reason that made Kai more comfortable with them, and he sat down next to Rei, the little muscles of his lower back protesting how fine the rest of him abruptly felt. "Did you break my window getting in here?"

Rei forked him a couple wheat-hearts and handed them over on another of Kai's chipped plates. "I have the highest respect for your window. But what else, since lock-picking_ isn't_ one of my many skills, and don't tell me you leave a spare key around. I know you don't. Unless it's in a box under the bridge..?"

Kai levered his fingers out of launcher position and into one capable of holding a fork. Slowly cut and chewed a piece of pancake. Swallowed. Realized he was extremely hungry and Liked This Food when his mouth watered about it. "You could just not come in here," Kai pointed out, because he never kept spare keys.

"Nowhere to plug the stove in out on the fire escape," Rei drawled, then in a change of tack, "Have you checked your mail at the BBA yet?"

Kai shook his head, chewing. Baring no expression but Rei'd be damned if the pancakes weren't perfectly cooked even on the shitty portable. He'd never expected gratitude, and knew Kai's stiffness was neither personal nor voluntary, just the result of what appeared to be a few days of nonstop training. Which explained where he'd disappeared to.

"You should. It's full of flowers," Rei explained, sprinkling some extra cacao chips onto Kai's plate when his pancake seemed underpopulated and Kai was glaring at the symmetry.

"Flowers? Who died?" Kai said, sniggering a little. Spearing a chocolate chip.

"It was Valentine's Day this weekend, so your American fans sent you presents." Rei frowned indulgently. "The press might like an appreciative statement about it, ne. More importantly, Taka led a hunt but you weren't here or anywhere. He wanted to give this to you."

Kai looked askance at Rei coolly handing over a piece of construction paper that read in Tyson's messy print "HAPPY PALENTINE'S DAY." It said something smaller too but Kai seemed reluctant to touch it. He speared another chocolate chip instead, and ate it. "…I've been training. With the Blitzkrieg Boys."

Well, naturally. Looked like his hands needed to be soaked. "Ah," Rei lightly replied in the tone of an abject trap, "So they're not staying here with you?" listening for the gears in Kai's head to turn with painful conciliatory creaking. The 'Tiger glanced at Kai's slightly hunched shoulders and his fingers twitched, some energetic benevolence wanting at them. But Kai would never ask.

Kai was busy thinking. He recalled the drive over, where the Russian team among whom he'd been uncomfortably squashed had played one of its favorite and most imaginative travel games: How to Best Kill Rei. Clockwise from the driver's seat, Tala had suggested, "Defenestration." Ian, "Food poisoning." Kai, looking out the passenger side window, "…of old age, in his sleep." Spencer, "Rail gun." "REPEAT. SPENCER'S OUT," Ian had protested, in which case it skipped along to Bryan, who said without hesitation, "Ebola."

At present, Kai put down his half-finished plate and regarded the raw palms of his hands. "No," he replied. No they were not staying at his place. Particularly since he'd had a foreboding feeling on the way up, and seeing his window propped open from the street had confirmed the suspicions. Like clockwork, were he gone too long, one of them, namely Rei—

"Not with Tyson," Rei said.

"Bryan's with them, you want that in the dojo, where you—" Kai snapped, eyes on the skin peeling off his knuckles. Like the Fact of Bryan explained everything! Or it _should_ have! Of course it did. Rei's eyes narrowed and he lunged, knocking Kai in a pinwheel of pulled limbs unceremoniously off the couch, past the table, and onto the floor. Following up to sweep a foot and relieve the Hiwatari of his propped elbows and knees so that Kai landed fully on his face with a half swear half "umph,"—and then Rei sat on his back.

Kai groaned, mind racing, too sore to get free. The most disgruntled machine in any room. "I don't need you to protect me," Rei took the opportunity to tell him from on high, rather pleasantly in fact, before digging his fingertips into his captain's suddenly available shoulders. "I'm not a weakling, I'm not so afraid." The muscles reacted by bunching in terror and then relaxing in pain. "I'm not afraid at all, actually, so you might as well have them over here. Hey, not hurt are you?"

Kai went limp under the massage like they tell you to in car crashes, or when being a possum, but his breathing came in sharp, betraying hisses as Rei kneaded insistently into him. His very _skin_ drew back, shuddering, unused to contact.

"The only way to reach an understanding is through contact! Shush that, you're fine," Rei happily observed. And Rei leaned over him, chest to Kai's back, this expanse of steady strength juxtaposed against a body which Kai had to _will_ to stop cringing. Hands to stop stinging. But Rei mercifully ignored the effort, and continued in his captain's ear, "I appreciate you tryin' ta act noble, Kai. Seriously. But I'm not a princess. None of us are. We can take care of you as much as you can us, so… come to breakfast sometimes.

"At risk of playing the fortune cookie: it's not about being perfect, it's about deserving each other. Anyway you're a sorry excuse for a white knight, getting this wound up from a little training," and Rei sat back, pressing his knuckles alongside Kai's spine. Kai who'd been working through his possible replies, face a storm of rage born from embarrassment. Kai who, cheek pressed to the frayed carpet, couldn't help but steadily decompress when the tension had been neither personal nor voluntary to start with. Kai who tried not to worry about Tala and them driving by here again—after all he'd told them to wait for his call. Sorry excuse for a white knight.

Kai had _hoped_ Rei wouldn't be there to meet him, see him, like, _this _and want to do something about it like _this_. But Palentine's Day. The pancakes, what could he do. It always seemed to hurt too much, getting free. Even if he didn't go to them, Rei broke in and brought it home. So with effort Kai folded his arms more comfortably beneath his head and listened to Rei observe they'd need witch hazel for his torn fingers, and umphed noncommittally and hissed in periodic pain, and tried to wait out the strange-feeling idea that in his line of sight, some cacao chips had scattered and were melting, and his carpet would smell like breakfast with _them_.

He listened to Rei attempt to drown out the wall-mice with soft Chinese song. And tried to concentrate on not flinching and deserving this, and thought reluctantly _thanks _and mostly succeeded. "Silly, Kai. Try to ask," Rei murmured, and then continued singing.

* * *

_A/N_: (And then Rei steps out for a second and returns to find Kai hog-tied by the Lilliputians like they did to Gulliver. jk.) In which Kai's apartment _gets even worse_, and I utterly fail at producing romantic chemistry between these two, DESPITE the imminent Big Gay Wedding.

Oh well, love is love is love, platonic or otherwise.


End file.
